AAABEL 
GHANNICE 

DOUGLAS 

mm 


ia 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


Hmabel  Cbannice 


BY 


Hnne  Bouglae  Sebgwicfc 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  RESCUE,"  "PATHS  OF  JUDGEMENT, 
"A  FOUNTAIN  SEALED,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

ZTbe  Century  Co. 

1908 


Copyright,  1908,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Published  October,  1908 


THE   OE  VINNE   PREM 


AMABEL    CHANNICE 


2040465 


AMABEL   CHANNICE 


'ADY  CHANNICE  was  waiting 
for  her  son  to  come  in  from  the 
garden.  The  afternoon  was 
growing  late,  but  she  had  not  sat  down  to 
the  table,  though  tea  was  ready  and  the 
kettle  sent  out  a  narrow  banner  of  steam. 
Walking  up  and  down  the  long  room  she 
paused  now  and  then  to  look  at  the  bowls 
and  vases  of  roses  placed  about  it,  now 
and  then  to  look  out  of  the  windows,  and 
finally  at  the  last  window  she  stopped  to 
watch  Augustine  advancing  over  the  lawn 
towards  the  house.  It  was  a  grey  stone 

3 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

house,  low  and  solid,  its  bareness  unalle- 
viated  by  any  grace  of  ornament  or  struc- 
ture, and  its  two  long  rows  of  windows 
gazed  out  resignedly  at  a  tame  prospect. 
The  stretch  of  lawn  sloped  to  a  sunken 
stone  wall;  beyond  the  wall  a  stream  ran 
sluggishly  in  a  ditch-like  channel;  on  the 
left  the  grounds  were  shut  in  by  a  syca- 
more wood,  and  beyond  were  flat  meadows 
crossed  in  the  distance  by  lines  of  tree- 
bordered  roads.  It  was  a  peaceful,  if  not 
a  cheering  prospect.  Lady  Channice  was 
fond  of  it.  Cheerfulness  was  not  a  thing 
she  looked  for;  but  she  looked  for  peace, 
and  it  was  peace  she  found  in  the  flat 
green  distance,  the  far,  reticent  ripple  of 
hill  on  the  horizon,  the  dark  forms  of  the 
sycamores.  Her  only  regret  for  the  view 
was  that  it  should  miss  the  sunrise  and 
sunset;  in  the  evenings,  beyond  the  sil- 
houetted woods,  one  saw  the  golden  sky; 
but  the  house  faced  north,  and  it  was  for 
this  that  the  green  of  the  lawn  was  so 
dank,  and  the  grey  of  the  walls  so  cold, 
and  the  light  in  the  drawing-room  where 

4 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

Lady  Channice  stood  so  white  and  so 
monotonous. 

She  was  fond  of  the  drawing-room, 
also,  unbeautiful  and  grave  to  sadness 
though  it  was.  The  walls  were  wain- 
scotted  to  the  ceiling  with  ancient  oak,  so 
that  though  the  north  light  entered  at  four 
high  windows  the  room  seemed  dark.  The 
furniture  was  ugly,  miscellaneous  and  inap- 
propriate. The  room  had  been  dismantled, 
and  in  place  of  the  former  drawing-room 
suite  were  gathered  together  incongruous 
waifs  and  strays  from  dining-  and  smok- 
ing-room and  boudoir.  A  number  of 
heavy  chairs  predominated  covered  in  a 
maroon  leather  which  had  cracked  in 
places;  and  there  were  three  lugubrious 
sofas  to  match. 

By  degrees,  during  her  long  and  lonely 
years  at  Charlock  House,  Lady  Channice 
had,  at  first  tentatively,  then  with  a  grow- 
ing assurance  in  her  limited  sphere  of 
action,  moved  away  a'll  the  ugliest,  most 
trivial  things:  tattered  brocade  and  gilt 
footstools,  faded  antimacassars,  dismal 

5 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

groups  of  birds  and  butterflies  under  glass 
cases.  When  she  sat  alone  in  the  evening, 
after  Augustine,  as  child  or  boy,  had  gone 
to  bed,  the  ghostly  glimmer  of  the  birds, 
the  furtive  glitter  of  a  glass  eye  here  and 
there,  had  seemed  to  her  quite  dreadful. 
The  removal  of  the  cases  (they  were  large 
and  heavy,  and  Mrs.  Bray,  the  house- 
keeper, had  looked  grimly  disapproving)  — 
was  her  crowning  act  of  courage,  and 
ever  since  their  departure  she  had  breathed 
more  freely.  It  had  been  easier  to  dispose 
of  all  the  little  colonies  of  faded  photo- 
graphs that  stood  on  cabinets  and  tables; 
they  were  photographs  of  her  husband's 
family  and  of  his  family's  friends,  people 
most  of  whom  were  quite  unknown  to  her, 
and  their  continued  presence  in  the  aban- 
doned house  was  due  to  indifference,  not 
affection :  no  one  had  cared  enough  about 
them  to  put  them  away,  far  less  to  look  at 
them.  After  looking  at  them  for  some 
years, — these  girls  in  court  dress  of  a  by- 
gone fashion,  huntsmen  holding  crops, 
sashed  babies  and  matrons  in  caps  or 
6 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

tiaras, — Lady  Channice  had  cared  enough 
to  put  them  away.  She  had  not,  either, 
to  ask  for  Mrs.  Bray's  assistance  or  advice 
for  this,  a  fact  which  was  a  relief,  for 
Mrs.  Bray  was  a  rather  dismal  being  and 
reminded  her,  indeed,  of  the  stuffed  birds 
in  the  removed  glass  cases.  With  her 
own  hands  she  incarcerated  the  photo- 
graphs in  the  drawers  of  a  heavily  carved 
bureau  and  turned  the  keys  upon  them. 

The  only  ornaments  now,  were  the  pale 
roses,  the  books,  and,  above  her  writing- 
desk,  a  little  picture  that  she  had  brought 
with  her,  a  water-colour  sketch  of  her  old 
home  painted  by  her  mother  many  years 
ago. 

So  the  room  looked  very  bare.  It  al- 
most looked  like  the  parlour  of  a  convent ; 
with  a  little  more  austerity,  whitened  walls 
and  a  few  thick  velvet  and  gilt  lives  of 
the  saints  on  the  tables,  the  likeness  would 
have  been  complete.  The  house  itself  was 
conventual  in  aspect,  and  Lady  Channice, 
as  she  stood  there  in  the  quiet  light  at  the 
window,  looked  not  unlike  a  nun,  were  it 

7 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

not  for  her  crown  of  pale  gold  hair  that 
shone  in  the  dark  room  and  seemed,  like 
the  roses,  to  bring  into  it  the  brightness  of 
an  outer,  happier  world. 

She  was  a  tall  woman  of  forty,  her 
ample  form,  her  wide  bosom,  the  falling 
folds  of  her  black  dress,  her  loosely  girdled 
waist,  suggesting,  with  the  cloistral  analo- 
gies, the  mournful  benignity  of  a  bereaved 
Madonna.  Seen  as  she  stood  there,  lean- 
ing her  head  to  watch  her  son's  approach, 
she  was  an  almost  intimidating  presence, 
black,  still,  and  stately.  But  when  the 
door  opened  and  the  young  man  came  in, 
when,  not  moving  to  meet  him,  she  turned 
her  head  with  a  slight  smile  of  welcome, 
all  intimidating  impressions  passed  away. 
Her  face,  rather,  as  it  turned,  under 
its  crown  of  gold,  was  the  intimidated 
face.  It  was  curiously  young,  pure,  flaw- 
less, as  though  its  youth  and  innocence  had 
been  preserved  in  some  crystal  medium  of 
prayer  and  silence;  and  if  the  nun-like 
analogies  failed  in  their  awe-inspiring 
associations,  they  remained  in  the  associa- 
8 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

tions  of  unconscious  pathos  and  uncon- 
scious appeal.  Amabel  Channice's  face, 
like  her  form,  was  long  and  delicately 
ample;  its  pallor  that  of  a  flower  grown 
in  shadow ;  the  mask  a  little  over-large  for 
the  features.  Her  eyes  were  small,  beauti- 
fully shaped,  slightly  slanting  upwards, 
their  light  grey  darkened  under  golden 
lashes,  the  brows  definitely  though  palely 
marked.  Her  mouth  was  pale  coral- 
colour,  and  the  small  upper  lip,  lifting 
when  she  smiled  as  she  was  smiling  now, 
showed  teeth  of  an  infantile,  milky  white- 
ness. The  smile  was  charming,  timid, 
tentative,  ingratiating,  like  a  young  girl's, 
and  her  eyes  were  timid,  too,  and  a  little 
wild. 

"Have  you  had  a  good  read?"  she  asked 
her  son.  He  had  a  book  in  his  hand. 

"Very,  thanks.  But  it  is  getting  chilly, 
down  there  in  the  meadow.  And  what  a 
lot  of  frogs  there  are  in  the  ditch,"  said 
Augustine  smiling,  "they  were  jumping 
all  over  the  place." 

"Oh,  as  long  as  they  were  n't  toads!" 

9 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

said  Lady  Channice,  her  smile  lighting  in 
response.  "When  I  came  here  first  to  live 
there  were  so  many  toads,  in  the  stone 
areas,  you  know,  under  the  gratings  in 
front  of  the  cellar  windows.  You  can't 
imagine  how  many !  It  used  quite  to  ter- 
rify me  to  look  at  them  and  I  went  to  the 
front  of  the  house  as  seldom  as  possible. 
I  had  them  all  taken  away,  finally,  in 
baskets,— not  killed,  you  know,  poor 
things, — but  just  taken  and  put  down  in 
a  field  a  mile  off.  I  hope  they  did  n't 
starve; — but  toads  are  very  intelligent, 
are  n't  they;  one  always  associates  them 
with  fairy-tales  and  princes." 

She  had  gone  to  the  tea-table  while  she 
spoke  and  was  pouring  the  boiling  water 
into  the  teapot.  Her  voice  had  pretty, 
flute-like  ups  and  downs  in  it  and  a  ques- 
tioning, upward  cadence  at  the  end  of  sen- 
tences. Her  upper  lip,  her  smile,  the  run 
of  her  speech,  all  would  have  made  one 
think  her  humorous,  were  it  not  for  the 
strain  of  nervousness  that  one  felt  in  her 
very  volubility. 

10 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

Her  son  lent  her  a  kindly  but  rather 
vague  attention  while  she  talked  to  him 
about  the  toads,  and  his  eye  as  he  stood 
watching  her  make  the  tea  was  also  vague. 
He  sat  down  presently,  as  if  suddenly  re- 
membering why  he  had  come  in,  and  it 
was  only  after  a  little  interval  of  silence, 
in  which  he  took  his  cup  from  his  mother's 
hands,  that  something  else  seemed  to 
occur  to  him  as  suddenly,  a  late  arriving 
suggestion  from  her  speech. 

"What  a  horribly  gloomy  place  you 
must  have  found  it." 

Her  eyes,  turning  on  him  quickly,  lost, 
in  an  instant,  their  uncertain  gaiety. 

"Gloomy?  Is  it  gloomy?  Do  you  feel 
it  gloomy  here,  Augustine?" 

"Oh,  well,  no,  not  exactly,"  he  answered 
easily.  "You  see  I  've  always  been  used 
to  it.  You  were  n't." 

As  she  said  nothing  to  this,  seeming  at 
a  loss  for  any  reply,  he  went  on  presently 
to  talk  of  other  things,  of  the  book  he  had 
been  reading,  a  heavy  metaphysical  tome ; 
of  books  that  he  intended  to  read;  of  a 
II 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

letter  that  he  had  received  that  morning 
from  the  Etori  friend  with  whom  he  was 
going  up  to  Oxford  for  his  first  term.  His 
mother  listened,  showing  a  careful  interest 
usual  with  her,  but  after  another  little 
silence  she  said  suddenly: 

"I  think  it 's  a  very  nice  place,  Charlock 
House,  Augustine.  Your  father  would  n't 
have  wanted  me  to  live  here  if  he  'd  imag- 
ined that  I  could  find  it  gloomy,  you 
know." 

"Oh,  of  course  not,"  said  the  young 
man,  in  an  impassive,  pleasant  voice. 

"He  has  always,  in  everything,  been  so 
thoughtful  for  my  comfort  and  happi- 
ness," said  Lady  Channice. 

Augustine  did  not  look  at  her :  his  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  sky  outside  and  he 
seemed  to  be  reflecting — though  not  over 
her  words. 

"So  that  I  could  n't  bear  him  ever  to 
hear  anything  of  that  sort,"  Lady  Chan- 
nice  went  on,  "that  either  of  us  could  find 
it  gloomy,  I  mean.  You  would  n't  ever  say 
it  to  him,  would  you,  Augustine."  There 

12 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

was  a  note  at  once  of  urgency  and  appeal 
in  her  voice. 

"Of  course  not,  since  you  don't  wish  it," 
her  son  replied. 

"I  ask  you  just  because  it  happens  that 
your  father  is  coming,"  Lady  Channice 
said,  "tomorrow; — and,  you  see,  if  you 
had  this  in  your  mind,  you  might  have 
said  something.  He  is  coming  to  spend 
the  afternoon." 

He  looked  at  her  now,  steadily,  still 
pleasantly ;  but  his  colour  rose. 

"Really,"  he  said. 

"Is  n't  it  nice.  I  do  hope  that  it  will  be 
fine ;  these  Autumn  days  are  so  uncertain ; 
if  only  the  weather  holds  up  we  can  have 
a  walk  perhaps." 

"Oh,  I  think  it  will  hold  up.  Will  there 
be  time  for  a  walk?" 

"He  will  be  here  soon  after  lunch,  and, 
I  think,  stay  on  to  tea." 

"He  did  n't  stay  on  to  tea  the  last  time, 
did  he." 

"No,  not  last  time;  he  is  so  very  busy; 
it  's  quite  three  years  since  we  have  had 

13 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

that  nice  walk  over  the  meadows,  and  he 
likes  that  so  much." 

She  was  trying  to  speak  lightly  and 
easily.  "And  it  must  be  quite  a  year  since 
you  have  seen  him." 

"Quite,"  said  Augustine.  "I  never  see 
him,  hardly,  but  here,  you  know." 

He  was  still  making  his  attempt  at 
pleasantness,  but  something  hard  and 
strained  had  come  into  his  voice,  and  as, 
with  a  sort  of  helplessness,  her  resources 
exhausted,  his  mother  sat  silent,  he  went 
on,  glancing  at  her,  as  if  with  the  sudden 
resolution,  he  also  wanted  to  make  very 
sure  of  his  way;— 

"You  like  seeing  him  more  than  any- 
thing, don't  you;  though  you  are  sepa- 
rated." 

Augustine  Channice  talked  a  great  deal 
to  his  mother  about  outside  things,  such 
as  philosophy;  but  of  personal  things,  of 
their  relation  to  the  world,  to  each  other, 
to  his  father,  he  never  spoke.  So  that  his 
speaking  now  was  arresting. 

His    mother    gazed    at    him.    "Sepa- 

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AMABEL  CHANNICE 

rated  ?  We  have  always  been  the  best  of 
friends." 

"Of  course.  I  mean— that  you  Ve 
never  cared  to  live  together.— Incompati- 
bility, I  suppose.  Only,"  Augustine  did 
not  smile,  he  looked  steadily  at  his  mother, 
"I  should  think  that  since  you  are  so  fond 
of  him  you  'd  like  seeing  him  oftener.  I 
should  think  that  since  he  is  the  best  of 
friends  he  would  want  to  come  oftener, 
you  know." 

When  he  had  said  these  words  he 
flushed  violently.  It  was  an  echo  of  his 
mother's  flush.  And  she  sat  silent,  finding 
no  words. 

"Mother,"  said  Augustine,  "forgive  me. 
That  was  impertinent  of  me.  It 's  no  af- 
fair of  mine." 

She  thought  so,  too,  apparently,  for  she 
found  no  words  in  which  to  tell  him  that  it 
was  his  affair.  Her  hands  clasped  tightly 
in  her  lap,  her  eyes  downcast,  she  seemed 
shrunken  together,  overcome  by  his  tact- 
less intrusion. 

"Forgive  me,"  Augustine  repeated. 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

The  supplication  brought  her  the  re- 
source of  words  again.  "Of  course, 
dear.  It  is  only — I  can't  explain  it  to 
you.  It  is  very  complicated.  But,  though 
it  seems  so  strange  to  you,— to  everybody, 
I  know — it  is  just  that:  though  we  don't 
live  together,  and  though  I  see  so  little  of 
your  father,  I  do  care  for  him  very,  very 
much.  More  than  for  anybody  in  the 
world, — except  you,  of  course,  dear  Augus- 
tine." 

"Oh,  don't  be  polite  to  me,"  he  said,  and 
smiled.  "More  than  for  anybody  in  the 
world;  stick  to  it." 

She  could  but  accept  the  amendment,  so 
kindly  and,  apparently,  so  lightly  pressed 
upon  her,  and  she  answered  him  with  a 
faint,  a  grateful  smile,  saying,  in  a  low 
voice: — "You  see,  dear,  he  is  the  noblest 
person  I  have  ever  known."  Tears  were 
in  her  eyes.  Augustine  turned  away  his 
own. 

They  sat  then  for  a  little  while  in  silence, 
the  mother  and  son. 

Her  eyes  downcast,  her  hands  folded  in 
16 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

an  attitude  that  suggested  some  inner 
dedication,  Amabel  Channice  seemed  to 
stay  her  thoughts  on  the  vision  of  that 
nobility.  And  though  her  son  was  near 
her,  the  thoughts  were  far  from  him. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Augustine 
Channice,  when  he  mused,  to  gaze 
straight  before  him,  whatever  the  object 
might  be  that  met  his  unseeing  eyes.  The 
object  now  was  the  high  Autumnal  sky 
outside,  crossed  only  here  and  there  by  a 
drifting  fleet  of  clouds. 

The  light  fell  calmly  upon  the  mother 
and  son  and,  in  their  stillness,  their 
contemplation,  the  two  faces  were  like 
those  on  an  old  canvas,  preserved  from 
time  and  change  in  the  trance-like  im- 
mutability of  art.  In  colour,  the  two 
heads  chimed,  though  Augustine's  hair 
was  vehemently  gold  and  there  were 
under-tones  of  brown  and  amber  in  his 
skin.  But  the  oval  of  Lady  Channice's 
face  grew  angular  in  her  son's,  broader 
and  more  defiant;  so  that,  palely,  darkly 
white  and  gold,  on  their  deep  background, 

17 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

the  two  heads  emphasized  each  other's 
character  by  contrast.  Augustine's  lips 
were  square  and  scornful;  his  nose  rug- 
gedly bridged;  his  eyes,  under  broad  eye- 
brows, ringed  round  the  iris  with  a  line 
of  vivid  hazel ;  and  as  his  lips,  though  mild 
in  expression,  were  scornful  in  form,  so 
these  eyes,  even  in  their  contemplation, 
seemed  fierce.  Calm,  controlled  face  as  it 
was,  its  meaning  for  the  spectator  was  of 
something  passionate  and  implacable.  In 
mother  and  son  alike  one  felt  a  capacity 
for  endurance  almost  tragic;  but  while 
Augustine's  would  be  the  endurance  of 
the  rock,  to  be  moved  only  by  shattering, 
his  mother's  was  the  endurance  of  the 
flower,  that  bends  before  the  tempest,  un- 
resisting, beaten  down  into  the  earth,  but 
lying,  even  there,  unbroken. 


18 


II 


\  HE  noise  and  movement  of  an 
outer  world  seemed  to  break  in 
upon  the  recorded  vision  of  ar- 
rested life. 

The  door  opened,  a  quick,  decisive  step 
approached  down  the  hall,  and,  closely  fol- 
lowing the  announcing  maid,  Mrs.  Grey, 
the  local  squiress,  entered  the  room.  In 
the  normal  run  of  rural  conventions,  Lady 
Channice  should  have  held  the  place;  but 
Charlock  House  no  longer  stood  for  what 
it  had  used  to  stand  in  the  days  of  Sir 
Hugh  Channice's  forbears.  Mrs.  Grey, 
of  Pangley  Hall,  had  never  held  any  but 
the  first  place  and  a  consciousness  of  this 
fact  seemed  to  radiate  from  her  competent 
personality.  She  was  a  vast  middle-aged 
woman  clad  in  tweed  and  leather,  but  her 

19 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

abundance  of  firm,  hard  flesh  could  lend 
itself  to  the  roughest  exigences  of  a  sport- 
ing outdoor  life.  Her  broad  face  shone 
like  a  ripe  apple,  and  her  sharp  eyes,  her 
tight  lips,  the  cheerful  creases  of  her  face, 
expressed  an  observant  and  rather  tyran- 
nous good-temper. 

"Tea?  No,  thanks;  no  tea  for  me,"  she 
almost  shouted;  "I  've  just  had  tea  with 
Mrs.  Grier.  How  are  you,  Lady  Chan- 
nice?  and  you,  Augustine?  What  a  man 
you  are  getting  to  be;  a  good  inch  taller 
than  my  Tom.  Reading  as  usual,  I  see. 
I  can't  get  my  boys  to  look  at  a  book  in 
vacation  time.  What  's  the  book?  Ah, 
fuddling  your  brains  with  that  stuff,  still, 
are  you  ?  Still  determined  to  be  a  philoso- 
pher? Do  you  really  want  him  to  be  a 
philosopher,  my  dear?" 

"Indeed  I  think  it  would  be  very  nice 
if  he  could  be  a  philosopher,"  said  Lady 
Channice,  smiling,  for  though  she  had 
often  to  evade  Mrs.  Grey's  tyranny  she 
liked  her  good  temper.  She  seemed  in  her 
reply  to  float,  lightly  and  almost  gaily 
20 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

above  Mrs.  Grey,  and  away  from  her. 
Mrs.  Grey  was  accustomed  to  these  tactics 
and  it  was  characteristic  of  her  not  to  let 
people  float  away  if  she  could  possibly 
help  it.  This  matter  of  Augustine's  future 
was  frequently  in  dispute  between  them. 
Her  feet  planted  firmly,  her  rifle  at  her 
shoulder,  she  seemed  now  to  take  aim  at 
a  bird  that  flew  from  her. 

"And  of  course  you  encourage  him! 
You  read  with  him  and  study  with  him! 
And  you  won't  see  that  you  let  him  drift 
more  and  more  out  of  practical  life  and 
into  moonshine.  What  does  it  do  for  him, 
that  's  what  I  ask?  Where  does  it  lead 
him?  What's  the  good  of  it?  Why  he '11 
finish  as  a  fusty  old  don.  Does  it  make 
you  a  better  man,  Augustine,  or  a  happier 
one,  to  spend  all  your  time  reading  philos- 
ophy?" 

"Very  much  better,  very  much  happier, 
I  find : — but  I  don't  give  it  all  my  time,  you 
know/'  Augustine  answered,  with  much 
his  mother's  manner  of  light  evasion.  He 
let  Mrs.  Grey  see  that  he  found  her  funny; 

21 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

perhaps  he  wished  to  let  her  see  that 
philosophy  helped  him  to.  Mrs.  Grey  gave 
up  the  fantastic  bird  and  turned  on  her 
heel. 

"Well,  I  've  not  come  to  dispute,  as 
usual,  with  you,  Augustine.  I  've  come  to 
ask  you,  Lady  Channice,  if  you  won't,  for 
once,  break  through  your  rules  and  come 
to  tea  on  Sunday.  I  Ve  a  surprise  for 
you.  An  old  friend  of  yours  is  to  be  of 
our  party  for  this  week-end.  Lady  Elliston ; 
she  comes  tomorrow,  and  she  writes  that 
she  hopes  to  see  something  of  you." 

Mrs.  Grey  had  her  eye  rather  sharply 
on  Lady  Channice ;  she  expected  to  see  her 
colour  rise,  and  it  did  rise. 

"Lady  Elliston  ?"  she  repeated,  vaguely, 
or,  perhaps,  faintly. 

"Yes ;  you  did  know  her ;  well,  she  told 
me." 

"It  was  years  ago,"  said  Lady  Chan- 
nice,  looking  down;  "Yes,  I  knew  her 
quite  well.  It  would  be  very  nice  to  see  her 
again.  But  I  don't  think  I  will  break  my 
rule ;  thank  you  so  much." 

22 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

Mrs.  Grey  looked  a  little  disconcerted 
and  a  little  displeased.  "Now  that  you  are 
growing  up,  Augustine,"  she  said,  "you 
must  shake  your  mother  out  of  her  way  of 
life.  It  's  bad  for  her.  She  lives  here, 
quite  alone,  and,  when  you  are  away — as 
you  will  have  to  be  more  and  more,  for 
some  time  now,— she  sees  nobody  but  her 
village  girls,  Mrs.  Grier  and  me  from  one 
month's  end  to  the  other.  I  can't  think 
what  she  's  made  of.  I  should  go  mad. 
And  so  many  of  us  would  be  delighted  if 
she  would  drop  in  to  tea  with  us  now  and 
then." 

"Oh,  well,  you  can  drop  in  to  tea  with 
her  instead,"  said  Augustine.  His  mother 
sat  silent,  with  her  faint  smile. 

"Well,  I  do.  But  I  'm  not  enough, 
though  I  flatter  myself  that  I  'm  a  good 
deal.  It  's  unwholesome,  such  a  life, 
downright  morbid  and  unwholesome. 
One  should  mingle  with  one's  kind.  I 
shall  wonder  at  you,  Augustine,  if  you  al- 
low it,  just  as,  for  years,  I  Ve  wondered 
at  your  father." 

23 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

It  may  have  been  her  own  slight  confu- 
sion, or  it  may  have  been  something  exas- 
perating in  Lady  Channice's  silence,  that 
had  precipitated  Mrs.  Grey  upon  this 
speech,  but,  when  she  had  made  it,  she  be- 
came very  red  and  wondered  whether  she 
had  gone  too  far.  Mrs.  Grey  was  pre- 
pared to  go  far.  If  people  evaded  her,  and 
showed  an  unwillingness  to  let  her  be  kind 
to  them — on  her  own  terms, — terms 
which,  in  regard  to  Lady  Channice,  were 
very  strictly  defined; — if  people  would  be- 
have in  this  unbecoming  and  ungrateful 
fashion,  they  only  got,  so  Mrs.  Grey 
would  have  put  it,  what  they  jolly  well  de- 
served if  she  gave  them  a  "stinger."  But 
Mrs.  Grey  did  not  like  to  give  Lady  Chan- 
nice  "stingers" ;  therefore  she  now  became 
red  and  wondered  at  herself. 

Lady  Channice  had  lifted  her  eyes  and 
it  was  as  if  Mrs.  Grey  saw  walls  and 
moats  and  impenetrable  thickets  glooming 
in  them.  She  answered  for  Augustine: 
"My  husband  and  I  have  always  been  in 
perfect  agreement  on  the  matter." 
24 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

Mrs.  Grey  tried  a  cheerful  laugh; — 
"You  won  him  over,  too,  no  doubt." 

"Entirely." 

"Well,  Augustine,"  Mrs.  Grey  turned  to 
the  young  man  again,  "I  don't  succeed 
with  your  mother,  but  I  hope  for  better 
luck  with  you.  You  're  a  man,  now,  and 
not  yet,  at  all  events,  a  monk.  Won't  you 
dine  with  us  on  Saturday  night?" 

Now  Mrs.  Grey  was  kind;  but  she  had 
never  asked  Lady  Channice  to  dinner. 
The  line  had  been  drawn,  firmly  drawn 
years  ago— and  by  Mrs.  Grey  herself —at 
tea.  And  it  was  not  until  Lady  Channice 
had  lived  for  several  years  at  Charlock 
House,  when  it  became  evident  that,  in 
spite  of  all  that  was  suspicious,  not  to  say 
sinister,  in  her  situation,  she  was  not  ex- 
actly cast  off  and  that  her  husband,  so  to 
speak,  admitted  her  to  tea  if  not  to  dinner, 
— it  was  not  until  then  that  Mrs.  Grey 
voiced  at  once  the  tolerance  and  the  discre- 
tion of  the  neighbourhood  and  said :  "They 
are  on  friendly  terms ;  he  comes  to  see  her 
twice  a  year.  We  can  call;  she  need  not 

25 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

be  asked  to  anything  but  tea.    There  can 
be  no  harm  in  that." 

There  was,  indeed,  no  harm,  for  though, 
when  they  did  call  in  Mrs.  Grey's  broad 
wake,  they  were  received  with  gentle 
courtesy,  they  were  made  to  feel  that  social 
contacts  would  go  no  further.  Lady 
Channice  had  been  either  too  much  of- 
fended or  too  much  frightened  by  the 
years  of  ostracism,  or  perhaps  it  was  really 
by  her  own  choice  that  she  adopted  the 
attitude  of  a  person  who  saw  people  when 
they  came  to  her  but  who  never  went  to 
see  them.  This  attitude,  accepted  by  the 
few,  was  resented  by  the  many,  so  that 
hardly  anybody  ever  called  upon  Lady 
Channice.  And  so  it  was  that  Mrs.  Grey 
satisfied  at  once  benevolence  and  curiosity 
in  her  staunch  visits  to  the  recluse  of 
Charlock  House,  and  could  feel  herself  as 
Lady  Channice's  one  wholesome  link  with 
the  world  that  she  had  rejected  or— here 
lay  all  the  ambiguity,  all  the  mystery  that, 
for  years,  had  whetted  Mrs.  Grey's  curi- 
osity to  fever-point— that  had  rejected  her. 
26 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

As  Augustine  grew  up  the  situation  be- 
came more  complicated.  It  was  felt  that 
as  the  future  owner  of  Charlock  House 
and  inheritor  of  his  mother's  fortune 
Augustine  was  not  to  be  tentatively  taken 
up  but  decisively  seized.  People  had  re- 
sented Sir  Hugh's  indifference  to  Char- 
lock House,  the  fact  that  he  had  never 
lived  there  and  had  tried,  just  before  his 
marriage,  to  sell  it.  But  Augustine  was 
yet  blameless,  and  Augustine  would  one 
day  be  a  wealthy  not  an  impecunious 
squire,  and  Mrs.  Grey  had  said  that  she 
would  see  to  it  that  Augustine  had  his 
chance.  "Apparently  there  's  no  one  to 
bring  him  out,  unless  I  do,"  she  said. 
"His  father,  it  seems,  won't,  and  his 
mother  can't.  One  does  n't  know  what  to 
think,  or,  at  all  events,  one  keeps  what  one 
thinks  to  oneself,  for  she  is  a  good,  sweet 
creature,  whatever  her  faults  may  have 
been.  But  Augustine  shall  be  asked  to 
dinner  one  day." 

Augustine's  "chance,"  in  Mrs.  Grey's 
eye,  was  her  sixth  daughter,  Marjory. 
27 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

So  now  the  first  step  up  the  ladder  was 
being  given  to  Augustine. 

He  kept  his  vagueness,  his  lightness,  his 
coolly  pleasant  smile,  looking  at  Mrs. 
Grey  and  not  at  his  mother  as  he  an- 
swered: "Thanks  so  much,  but  I  'm 
monastic,  too,  you  know.  I  don't  go  to 
dinners.  I  '11  ride  over  some  afternoon 
and  see  you  all." 

Mrs.  Grey  compressed  her  lips.  She 
was  hurt  and  she  had,  also,  some  difficulty 
in  restraining  her  temper  before  this  re- 
buff. "But  you  go  to  dinners  in  London. 
You  stay  with  people." 

"Ah,  yes;  but  I  'm  alone  then.  When 
I  Jm  with  my  mother  I  share  her  life." 
He  spoke  so  lightly,  yet  so  decisively, 
with  a  tact  and  firmness  beyond  his  years, 
that  Mrs.  Grey  rose,  accepting  her  defeat. 

"Then  Lady  Elliston  and  I  will  come 
over,  some  day,"  she  said.  "I  wish  we 
saw  more  of  her.  John  and  I  met  her 
while  we  were  staying  with  the  Bishop 
this  Spring.  The  Bishop  has  the  highest 
opinion  of  her.  He  said  that  she  was  a 
28 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

most  unusual  woman, — in  the  world,  yet 
not  of  it.  One  feels  that.  Her  eldest  girl 
married  young  Lord  Catesby,  you  know; 
a  very  brilliant  match;  she  presents  her 
second  girl  next  Spring,  when  I  do  Mar- 
jory. You  must  come  over  for  a  ride  with 
Marjory,  soon,  Augustine." 

"I  will,  very  soon,"  said  Augustine. 

When  their  visitor  at  last  went,  when 
the  tramp  of  her  heavy  boots  had  receded 
down  the  hall,  Lady  Channice  and  her  son 
again  sat  in  silence;  but  it  was  now  an- 
other silence  from  that  into  which  Mrs. 
Grey's  shots  had  broken.  It  was  like  the 
stillness  of  the  copse  or  hedgerow  when 
the  sportsmen  are  gone  and  a  vague  stir 
and  rustle  in  ditch  or  underbrush  tells  of 
broken  wings  or  limbs,  of  a  wounded 
thing  hiding. 

Lady  Channice  spoke  at  last.  "I  wish 
you  had  accepted  for  the  dinner,  Augus- 
tine. I  don't  want  you  to  identify  yourself 
with  my  peculiarities." 

"I  did  n't  want  to  dine  with  Mrs.  Grey, 
mother." 

29 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"You  hurt  her.  She  is  a  kind  neigh- 
bour. .You  will  see  her  more  or  less  for 
all  of  your  life,  probably.  You  must  take 
your  place,  here,  Augustine." 

"My  place  is  taken.  I  like  it  just  as  it 
is.  I  '11  see  the  Greys  as  I  always  have 
seen  them;  I  '11  go  over  to  tea  now  and 
then  and  I  '11  ride  and  hunt  with  the  chil- 
dren." 

"But  that  was  when  you  were  a  child. 
You  are  almost  a  man  now;  you  are  a 
man,  Augustine;  and  your  place  is  n't  a 
child's  place." 

"My  place  is  by  you."  For  the  second 
time  that  day  there  was  a  new  note  in 
Augustine's  voice.  It  was  as  if,  clearly 
and  definitely,  for  the  first  time,  he  was 
feeling  something  and  seeing  something 
and  as  if,  though  very  resolutely  keeping 
from  her  what  he  felt,  he  was,  when 
pushed  to  it,  as  resolutely  determined  to 
let  her  see  what  he  saw. 

"By  me,  dear,"  she  said  faintly. 
"What  do  you  mean?" 

30 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"She  ought  to  have  asked  you  to  dinner, 
too." 

"But  I  would  not  have  accepted ;  I  don't 
go  out.  She  knows  that.  She  knows  that 
I  am  a  real  recluse." 

"She  ought  to  have  asked  knowing  that 
you  would  not  accept." 

"Augustine  dear,  you  are  foolish.  You 
know  nothing  of  these  little  feminine  social 
compacts." 

"Are  they  only  feminine  ?" 

"Only.  Mere  crystallised  conveniences. 
It  would  be  absurd  for  Mrs.  Grey,  after 
all  these  years,  to  ask  me  in  order  to  be 
refused." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  and  then 
Augustine  said:  "Did  she  ever  ask  you?" 

The  candles  had  been  lighted  and  the 
lamp  brought  in,  making  the  corners  of 
the  room  look  darker.  There  was  only  a 
vague  radiance  about  the  chimney  piece, 
the  little  candle-flames  doubled  in  the  mir- 
ror, and  the  bright  circle  where  Lady 
Channice  and  her  son  sat  on  either  side 

31 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

of  the  large,  round  table.  The  lamp  had 
a  green  shade,  and  their  faces  were  in 
shadow.  Augustine  had  turned  away  his 
eyes. 

And  now  a  strange  and  painful  thing 
happened,  stranger  and  more  painful  than 
he  could  have  foreseen ;  for  his  mother  did 
not  answer  him.  The  silence  grew  long 
and  she  did  not  speak.  Augustine  looked 
at  her  at  last  and  saw  that  she  was  gazing 
at  him,  and,  it  seemed  to  him,  with  help- 
less fear.  His  own  eyes  did  not  echo  it; 
anger,  rather,  rose  in  them,  cold  fierceness, 
against  himself,  it  was  apparent,  as  well 
as  against  the  world  that  he  suspected. 
He  was  not  impulsive ;  he  was  not  demon- 
strative; but  he  got  up  and  put  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder.  "I  don't  mean  to  tor- 
ment you,  like  the  rest  of  them/'  he  said. 
"I  don't  mean  to  ask— and  be  refused. 
Forget  what  I  said.  It  's  only — only— 
that  it  infuriates  me. — To  see  them  all. — 
And  you!— cut  off,  wasted,  in  prison  here. 
I  Ve  been  seeing  it  for  a  long  time ;  I  won't 
speak  of  it  again.  I  know  that  there  are 

32 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

sad  things  in  your  life.  All  I  want  to  say, 
all  I  wanted  to  say  was— that  I  'm  with 
you,  and  against  them." 

She  sat,  her  face  in  shadow  beneath  him, 
her  hands  tightly  clasped  together  and 
pressed  down  upon  her  lap.  And,  in  a 
faltering  voice  that  strove  in  vain  for 
firmness,  she  said:  "Dear  Augustine- 
thank  you.  I  know  you  would  n't  want  to 
hurt  me.  You  see,  when  I  came  here  to 
live,  I  had  parted— from  your  father,  and 
I  wanted  to  be  quite  alone;  I  wanted  to 
see  no  one.  And  they  felt  that:  they  felt 
that  I  would  n't  lead  the  usual  life.  So  it 
grew  most  naturally.  Don't  be  angry 
with  people,  or  with  the  world.  That 
would  warp  you,  from  the  beginning.  It 's 
a  good  world,  Augustine.  I  've  found  it 
so.  It  is  sad,  but  there  is  such  beauty.— 
I  'm  not  cut  off,  or  wasted;— I  'm  not  in 
prison.— How  can  you  say  it,  dear,  of  me, 
who  have  you — and  him" 

Augustine's  hand  rested  on  her  shoulder 
for  some  moments  more.  Lifting  it  he 
stood  looking  before  him.  "I  'm  not  going 

33 


to  quarrel  with  the  world,"  he  then  said. 
"I  know  what  I  like  in  it." 

"Dear— thanks— "  she  murmured. 

Augustine  picked  up  his  book  again. 
"I  '11  study  for  a  bit,  now,  in  my  room," 
he  said.  "Will  you  rest  before  dinner? 
Do;  I  shall  feel  more  easy  in  my  con- 
science if  I  inflict  Hegel  on  you  after- 
wards." 


34 


'ADY  CHANNICE  did  not  go 
and  rest.  She  sat  on  in  the 
^  shadowy  room  gazing  before 
her,  her  hands  still  clasped,  her  face  wear- 
ing still  its  look  of  fear.  For  twenty 
years  she  had  not  known  what  it  was  to 
be  without  fear.  It  had  become  as  much 
a  part  of  her  life  as  the  air  she  breathed 
and  any  peace  or  gladness  had  blossomed 
for  her  only  in  that  air:  sometimes  she 
was  almost  unconscious  of  it.  This  after- 
noon she  had  become  conscious.  It  was 
as  if  the  air  were  heavy  and  oppressive 
and  as  if  she  breathed  with  difficulty. 
And  sitting  there  she  asked  herself  if  the 
time  was  coming  when  she  must  tell 
Augustine. 

35 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

What  she  might  have  to  tell  was  a  story 
that  seemed  strangely  disproportionate :  it 
was  the  story  of  her  life ;  but  all  of  it  that 
mattered,  all  of  it  that  made  the  story,  was 
pressed  into  one  year  long  ago.  Before 
that  year  was  sunny,  uneventful  girlhood, 
after  it  grey,  uneventful  womanhood ;  the 
incident,  the  drama,  was  all  knotted  into 
one  year,  and  it  seemed  to  belong  to  her- 
self no  longer;  she  seemed  a  spectator, 
looking  back  in  wonder  at  the  disaster  of 
another  woman's  life.  A  long  flat  road 
stretched  out  behind  her;  she  had  jour- 
neyed over  it  for  years;  and  on  the  far 
horizon  she  saw,  if  she  looked  back,  the 
smoke  and  flames  of  a  burning  city — 
miles  and  miles  away. 

Amabel  Freer  was  the  daughter  of  a 
rural  Dean,  a  scholarly,  sceptical  man. 
The  forms  of  religion  were  his  without  its 
heart;  its  heart  was  her  mother's,  who  was 
saintly  and  whose  orthodoxy  was  the 
vaguest  symbolic  system.  From  her  father 
Amabel  had  the  scholar's  love  of  beauty 
in  thought,  from  her  mother  the  love  of 

36 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

beauty  in  life;  but  her  loves  had  been 
dreamy:  she  had  thought  and  lived  little. 
Happy  compliance,  happy  confidence,  a 
dawn-like  sense  of  sweetness  and  purity, 
had  filled  her  girlhood. 

When  she  was  sixteen  her  father  had 
died,  and  her  mother  in  the  following  year. 
Amabel  and  her  brother  Bertram  were 
well  dowered.  Bertram  was  in  the  For- 
eign Office,  neither  saintly  nor  scholarly, 
like  his  parents,  nor  undeveloped  like  his 
young  sister.  He  was  a  capable,  conven- 
tional man  of  the  world,  sure  of  himself 
and  rather  suspicious  of  others.  Amabel 
imagined  him  a  model  of  all  that  was  good 
and  lovely.  The  sudden  bereavement  of 
her  youth  bewildered  and  overwhelmed 
her;  her  capacity  for  dependent,  self- 
devoting  love  sought  for  an  object  and 
lavished  itself  upon  her  brother.  She 
went  to  live  with  an  aunt,  her  father's 
sister,  and  when  she  was  eighteen  her 
aunt  brought  her  to  London,  a  tall,  heavy 
and  rather  clumsy  country  girl,  arrested 
rather  than  developed  by  grief.  Her  aunt 

37 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

was  a  world-worn,  harassed  woman;  she 
had  married  off  her  four  daughters  with 
difficulty  and  felt  the  need  of  a  change  of 
occupation;  but  she  accepted  as  a  matter 
of  course  the  duty  of  marrying  off  Amabel. 
That  task  accomplished  she  would  go  to 
bed  every  night  at  half  past  ten  and  devote 
her  days  to  collecting  coins  and  enamels. 
Her  respite  came  far  more  quickly  than 
she  could  have  imagined  possible.  Amabel 
had  promise  of  great  beauty,  but  two  or 
three  years  were  needed  to  fulfill  it;  Mrs. 
Compton  could  but  be  surprised  when  Sir 
Hugh  Channice,  an  older  colleague  of 
Bertram's,  a  fashionable  and  charming 
man,  asked  for  the  hand  of  her  unformed 
young  charge.  Sir  Hugh  was  fourteen 
years  Amabel's  senior  and  her  very  guile- 
lessness  no  doubt  attracted  him ;  then  there 
was  the  money ;  he  was  not  well  off  and  he 
lived  a  life  rather  hazardously  full.  Still, 
Mrs.  Compton  could  hardly  believe  in  her 
good-fortune.  Amabel  accepted  her  own 
very  simply;  her  compliance  and  confi- 
dence were  even  deeper  than  before.  Sir 

38 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

Hugh  was  the  most  graceful  of  lovers. 
His  quizzical  tenderness  reminded  her  of 
her  father,  his  quasi-paternal  courtship 
emphasized  her  instinctive  trust  in  the 
beauty  and  goodness  of  life. 

So  at  eighteen  she  was  married  at  St. 
George's  Hanover  Square  and  wore  a 
wonderful  long  satin  train  and  her 
mother's  lace  veil  and  her  mother's  pearls 
around  her  neck  and  hair.  A  bridesmaid 
had  said  that  pearls  were  unlucky,  but 
Mrs.  Compton  tersely  answered: — "Not 
if  they  are  such  good  ones  as  these." 
Amabel  had  bowed  her  head  to  the  pearls, 
seeing  them,  with  the  train,  and  the  veil, 
and  her  own  snowy  figure,  vaguely,  still 
in  the  dreamlike  haze.  Memories  of  her 
father  and  mother,  and  of  the  dear  dean- 
ery among  its  meadows,  floating  frag- 
ments of  the  poetry  her  father  had  loved, 
of  the  prayers  her  mother  had  taught  her 
in  childhood,  hovered  in  her  mind.  She 
seemed  to  see  the  primrose  woods  where 
she  had  wandered,  and  to  hear  the  sound 
of  brooks  and  birds  in  Spring.  A  vague 

39 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

smile  was  on  her  lips.  She  thought  of  Sir 
Hugh  as  of  a  radiance  lighting  all.  She 
was  the  happiest  of  girls. 

Shortly  after  her  marriage,  all  the  radi- 
ance, all  the  haze  was  gone.  It  had  been 
difficult  then  to  know  why.  Now,  as  she 
looked  back,  she  thought  that  she  could 
understand. 

She  had  been  curiously  young,  curiously 
inexperienced.  She  had  expected  life  to 
go  on  as  dawn  for  ever.  Everyday  light 
had  filled  her  with  bleakness  and  disillu- 
sion. She  had  had  childish  fancies;  that 
her  husband  did  not  really  love  her;  that 
she  counted  for  nothing  in  his  life.  Yet 
Sir  Hugh  had  never  changed,  except  that 
he  very  seldom  made  love  to  her  and  that 
she  saw  less  of  him  than  during  their  en- 
gagement. Sir  Hugh  was  still  quizzically 
tender,  still  all  grace,  all  deference,  when 
he  was  there.  And  what  wonder  that  he 
was  little  there;  he  had  a  wide  life ;  he  was 
a  brilliant  man;  she  was  a  stupid  young 
girl ;  in  looking  back,  no  longer  young,  no 
longer  stupid,  Lady  Channice  thought  that 
40 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

she  could  see  it  all  quite  clearly.  She  had 
seemed  to  him  a  sweet,  good  girl,  and  he 
cared  for  her  and  wanted  a  \vife.  He  had 
hoped  that  by  degrees  she  would  grow  into 
a  wise  and  capable  woman,  fit  to  help  and 
ornament  his  life.  But  she  had  not  been 
wise  or  capable.  She  had  been  lonely  and 
unhappy,  and  that  wide  life  of  his  had 
wearied  and  confused  her ;  the  silence,  the 
watching  attitude  of  the  girl  were  inade- 
quate to  her  married  state,  and  yet  she  had 
nothing  else  to  meet  it  with.  She  had 
never  before  felt  her  youth  and  inexperi- 
ence as  oppressive,  but  they  oppressed  her 
now.  She  had  nothing  to  ask  of  the  world 
and  nothing  to  give  to  it.  What  she  did 
ask  of  life  was  not  given  to  her,  what  she 
had  to  give  was  not  wanted.  She  was 
very  unhappy. 

Yet  people  were  kind.  In  especial  Lady 
Elliston  was  kind,  the  loveliest,  most  shel- 
tering, most  understanding  of  all  her 
guests  or  hostesses.  Lady  Elliston  and 
her  cheerful,  jocose  husband,  were  Sir 
Hugh's  nearest  friends  and  they  took  her 

4U 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

in  and  made  much  of  her.  And  one  day 
when,  in  a  fit  of  silly  wretchedness,  Lady 
Elliston  found  her  crying,  she  had  put  her 
arms  around  her  and  kissed  her  and 
begged  to  know  her  grief  and  to  comfort 
it.  Even  thus  taken  by  surprise,  and  even 
to  one  so  kind,  Amabel  could  not  tell  that 
grief :  deep  in  her  was  a  reticence,  a  sense 
of  values  austere  and  immaculate:  she 
could  not  discuss  her  husband,  even  with 
the  kindest  of  friends.  And  she  had  noth- 
ing to  tell,  really,  but  of  herself,  her  own 
helplessness  and  deficiency.  Yet,  without 
her  telling,  for  all  her  wish  that  no  one 
should  guess,  Lady  Elliston  did  guess. 
Her  comfort  had  such  wise  meaning  in  it. 
She  was  ten  years  older  than  Amabel. 
She  knew  all  about  the  world;  she  knew 
all  about  girls  and  their  husbands. 
Amabel  was  only  a  girl,  and  that  was  the 
trouble,  she  seemed  to  say.  When  she 
grew  older  she  would  see  that  it  would 
come  right ;  husbands  were  always  so ;  the 
wider  life  reached  by  marriage  would 
atone  in  many  ways.  And  Lady  Elliston, 
42 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

all  with  sweetest  discretion,  had  asked 
gentle  questions.  Some  of  them  Amabel 
had  not  understood;  some  she  had.  She 
remembered  now  that  her  own  silence  or 
dull  negation  might  have  seemed  very 
rude  and  ungrateful;  yet  Lady  Elliston 
had  taken  no  offence.  All  her  memories 
of  Lady  Elliston  were  of  this  tact  and 
sweetness,  this  penetrating,  tentative  tact 
and  sweetness  that  sought  to  understand 
and  help  and  that  drew  back,  unflurried 
and  unprotesting  before  rebuff,  ready  to 
emerge  again  at  any  hint  of  need, — of 
these,  and  of  her  great  beauty,  the  light 
of  her  large  clear  eyes,  the  whiteness  of 
her  throat,  the  glitter  of  diamonds  about 
and  above :  for  it  was  always  in  her  most 
festal  aspect,  at  night,  under  chandeliers 
and  in  ball-rooms,  that  she  best  remem- 
bered her.  Amabel  knew,  with  the  deep, 
instinctive  sense  of  values  which  was  part 
of  her  inheritance  and  hardly,  at  that  time, 
part  of  her  thought,  that  her  mother  would 
not  have  liked  Lady  Elliston,  would  have 
thought  her  worldly ;  yet,  and  this  showed 

43 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

that  Amabel  was  developing,  she  had  al- 
ready learned  that  worldliness  was  com- 
patible with  many  things  that  her  mother 
would  have  excluded  from  it;  she  could 
see  Lady  Elliston  with  her  own  and  with 
her  mother's  eyes,  and  it  was  puzzling, 
part  of  the  pain  of  growth,  to  feel  that  her 
own  was  already  the  wider  vision. 

Soon  after  that  the  real  story  came. 
The  city  began  to  burn  and  smoke  and 
flames  to  blind  and  scorch  her. 

It  was  at  Lady  Elliston's  country  house 
that  Amabel  first  met  Paul  Quentin.  He 
was  a  daring  young  novelist  who  was 
being  made  much  of  during  those  years; 
for  at  that  still  somewhat  guileless  time 
to  be  daring  had  been  to  be  original.  His 
books  had  power  and  beauty,  and  he  had 
power  and  beauty,  fierce,  dreaming  eyes 
and  an  intuitive,  sudden  smile.  Under  his 
aspect  of  careless  artist,  his  head  was  a 
little  turned  by  his  worldly  success,  by 
great  country-houses  and  flattering  great 
ladies ;  he  did  not  take  the  world  as  indif- 
ferently as  he  seemed  to.  Success  edged 

44 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

his  self-confidence  with  a  reckless  as- 
surance. He  was  an  ardent  student  of 
Nietzsche,  at  a  time  when  that,  too,  was  to 
be  original.  Amabel  met  this  young  man 
constantly  at  the  dances  and  country  par- 
ties of  a  season.  And,  suddenly,  the  world 
changed.  It  was  not  dawn  and  it  was  not 
daylight ;  it  was  a  wild  and  beautiful  illu- 
mination like  torches  at  night.  She  knew 
herself  loved  and  her  own  being  became 
precious  and  enchanting  to  her.  The  pres- 
ence of  the  man  who  loved  her  filled  her 
with  rapture  and  fear.  Their  recognition 
was  swift.  He  told  her  things  about  her- 
self that  she  had  never  dreamed  of  and  as 
he  told  them  she  felt  them  to  be  true. 

To  other  people  Paul  Quentin  did  not 
speak  much  of  Lady  Channice.  He  early 
saw  that  he  would  need  to  be  discreet. 
One  day  at  Lady  Elliston's  her  beauty 
was  in  question  and  someone  said  that  she 
was  too  pale  and  too  impassive;  and  at 
that  Quentin,  smiling  a  little  fiercely,  re- 
marked that  she  was  as  pale  as  a  cowslip 
and  as  impassive  as  a  young  Madonna; 

45 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

the  words  pictured  her ;  her  fresh  Spring- 
like quality,  and  the  peace,  as  of  some 
noble  power  not  yet  roused. 

In  looking  back,  it  was  strange  and  ter- 
rible to  Lady  Channice  to  see  how  little 
she  had  really  known  this  man.  Their 
meetings,  their  talks  together,  were  like 
the  torchlight  that  flashed  and  wavered 
and  only  fitfully  revealed.  From  the  first 
she  had  listened,  had  assented,  to  every- 
thing he  said,  hanging  upon  his  words  and 
his  looks  and  living  afterward  in  the 
memory  of  them.  And  in  memory  their 
significance  seemed  so  to  grow  that  when 
they  next  met  they  found  themselves  far 
nearer  than  the  words  had  left  them. 

All  her  young  reserves  and  dignities 
had  been  penetrated  and  dissolved.  It 
was  always  themselves  he  talked  of,  but, 
from  that  centre,  he  waved  the  torch 
about  a  transformed  earth  and  showed  her 
a  world  of  thought  and  of  art  that  she  had 
never  seen  before.  No  murmur  of  it  had 
reached  the  deanery;  to  her  husband  and 
the  people  he  lived  among  it  was  a  mere 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

spectacle;  Quentin  made  that  bright,  ar- 
dent world  real  to  her,  and  serious.  He 
gave  her  books  to  read;  he  took  her  to 
hear  music;  he  showed  her  the  pictures, 
the  statues,  the  gems  and  porcelains  that 
she  had  before  accepted  as  part  of  the 
background  of  life  hardly  seeing  them. 
From  being  the  background  of  life  they 
became,  in  a  sense,  suddenly  its  object. 
But  not  their  object — not  his  and  hers, — 
though  they  talked  of  them,  looked,  lis- 
tened and  understood.  To  Quentin  and 
Amabel  this  beauty  was  still  background, 
and  in  the  centre,  at  the  core  of  things, 
were  their  two  selves  and  the  ecstasy  of 
feeling  that  exalted  and  terrified.  All 
else  in  life  became  shackles.  It  was  hardly 
shock,  it  was  more  like  some  immense  re- 
lief, when,  in  each  other's  arms,  the  words 
of  love,  so  long  implied,  were  spoken.  He 
said  that  she  must  come  with  him;  that 
she  must  leave  it  all  and  come.  She 
fought  against  herself  and  against  him  in 
refusing,  grasping  at  pale  memories  of 
duty,  honour,  self-sacrifice;  he  knew  too 

47 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

well  the  inner  treachery  that  denied  her 
words.  But,  looking  back,  trying  not  to 
flinch  before  the  scorching  memory,  she 
did  not  know  how  he  had  won  her.  The 
dreadful  jostle  of  opportune  circumstance ; 
her  husband's  absence,  her  brother's; — 
the  chance  pause  in  the  empty  London 
house  between  country  visits; — Paul 
Quentin  following,  finding  her  there;  the 
hot,  dusty,  enervating  July  day,  all 
seemed  to  have  pushed  her  to  the  act  of 
madness  and  made  of  it  a  willess  yielding 
rather  than  a  decision.  For  she  had 
yielded;  she  had  left  her  husband's  house 
and  gone  with  him. 

They  went  abroad  at  once,  to  France, 
to  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau.  How  she 
hated  ever  after  the  sound  of  the  lovely 
syllables,  hated  the  memory  of  the  rocks 
and  woods,  the  green  shadows  and  the 
golden  lights  where  she  had  walked  with 
him  and  known  horror  and  despair  deep- 
ening in  her  heart  with  every  day.  She 
judged  herself,  not  him,  in  looking  back; 
even  then  it  had  been  herself  she  had 

48 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

judged.  Though  unwilling,  she  had  been 
as  much  tempted  by  herself  as  by  him ;  he 
had  had  to  break  down  barriers,  but 
though  they  were  the  barriers  of  her  very 
soul,  her  longing  heart  had  pressed,  had 
beaten  against  them,  crying  out  for  de- 
liverance. She  did  not  judge  him,  but, 
alone  with  him  in  the  forest,  alone  with 
him  in  the  bland,  sunny  hotel,  alone  with 
him  through  the  long  nights  when  she  lay 
awake  and  wondered,  in  a  stupor  of  de- 
spair, she  saw  that  he  was  different.  So 
different ;  there  was  the  horror.  She  was 
the  sinner;  not  he.  He  belonged  to  the 
bright,  ardent  life,  the  life  without  social 
bond  or  scruple,  the  life  of  sunny,  tolerant 
hotels  and  pagan  forests ;  but  she  did  not 
belong  to  it.  The  things  that  had  seemed 
external  things,  barriers  and  shackles, 
were  the  realest  things,  were  in  fact  the 
inner  things,  were  her  very  self.  In 
yielding  to  her  heart  she  had  destroyed 
herself,  there  was  no  life  to  be  lived 
henceforth  with  this  man,  for  there  was 
no  self  left  to  live  it  with.  She  saw  that 

49 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

she  had  cut  herself  off  from  her  future 
as  well  as  from  her  past.  The  sacred  past 
judged  her  and  the  future  was  dead.  Years 
of  experience  concentrated  themselves  into 
that  lawless  week.  She  saw  that  laws 
were  not  outside  things;  that  they  were 
one's  very  self  at  its  wisest.  She  saw  that 
if  laws  were  to  be  broken  it  could  only  be 
by  a  self  wiser  than  the  self  that  had 
made  the  law.  And  the  self  that  had  fled 
with  Paul  Quentin  was  only  a  passionate, 
blinded  fragment,  a  heart  without  a  brain, 
a  fragment  judged  and  rejected  by  the 
whole. 

To  both  lovers  the  week  was  one  of  bit- 
ter disillusion,  though  for  Quentin  no 
such  despair  was  possible.  For  him  it  was 
an  attempt  at  joy  and  beauty  that  had 
failed.  This  dulled,  drugged  looking  girl 
was  not  the  radiant  woman  he  had  hoped 
to  find.  Vain  and  sensitive  as  he  was,  he 
felt,  almost  immediately,  that  he  had  lost 
his  charm  for  her;  that  she  had  ceased  to 
love  him.  That  was  the  ugly,  the  humili- 
ating side  of  the  truth,  the  side  that  so 

50 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

filled  Amabel  Channice's  soul  with  sick- 
ness as  she  looked  back  at  it.  She  had 
ceased  to  love  him,  almost  at  once. 

And  it  was  not  guilt  only,  and  fear,  that 
had  risen  between  them  and  separated 
them;  there  were  other,  smaller,  subtler 
reasons,  little  snakes  that  hissed  in  her 
memory.  He  was  different  from  her  in 
other  ways.  • 

She  hardly  saw  that  one  of  the  ways 
was  that  of  breeding ;  but  she  felt  that  he 
jarred  upon  her  constantly,  in  their  inti- 
macy, their  helpless,  dreadful  intimacy.  In 
contrast,  the  thought  of  her  husband  had 
been  with  her,  burningly.  She  did  not 
say  to  herself,  for  she  did  not  know  it,  her 
experience  of  life  was  too  narrow  to  give 
her  the  knowledge, — that  her  husband  was 
a  gentleman  and  her  lover,  a  man  of  genius 
though  he  were,  was  not;  but  she  com- 
pared them,  incessantly,  when  Quentin's 
words  and  actions,  his  instinctive  judg- 
ments of  rfien  and  things,  made  her  shrink 
and  flush.  He  was  so  clever,  cleverer  far 
than  Hugh;  but  he  did  not  know,  as  Sir 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

Hugh  would  have  known,  what  the  slight 
things  were  that  would  make  her  shrink. 
He  took  little  liberties  when  he  should 
have  been  reticent  and  he  was  humble 
when  he  should  have  been  assured.  For 
he  was  often  humble;  he  was,  oddly, 
pathetically — and  the  pity  for  him  added 
to  the  sickness— afraid  of  her  and  then, 
because  he  was  afraid,  he  grew  angry 
with  her. 

He  was  clever ;  but  there  are  some  things 
cleverness  cannot  reach.  What  he  failed 
to  feel  by  instinct,  he  tried  to  scorn.  It 
was  not  the  patrician  scorn,  stupid  yet  not 
ignoble,  for  something  hardly  seen,  hardly 
judged,  merely  felt  as  dull  and  insignifi- 
cant; it  was  the  corroding  plebeian  scorn 
for  a  suspected  superiority. 

He  quarrelled  with  her,  and  she  sat 
silent,  knowing  that  her  silence,  her  pas- 
sivity, was  an  affront  the  more,  but  help- 
less, having  no  word  to  say.  What  could 
she  say? — I  do  love  you:  I  am  wretched: 
utterly  wretched  and  utterly  destroyed. — 
That  was  all  there  was  to  say.  So  she  sat, 

52 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

dully  listening,  as  if  drugged.  And  she 
only  winced  when  he  so  far  forgot  himself 
as  to  cry  out  that  it  was  her  silly  pride  of 
blood,  the  aristocratic  illusion,  that  had 
infected  her ;  she  belonged  to  the  caste  that 
could  not  think  and  that  picked  up  the 
artist  and  thinker  to  amuse  and  fill  its 
vacancy. — "We  may  be  lovers,  or  we  may 
be  performing  poodles,  but  we  are  never 
equals,"  he  had  cried.  It  was  for  him 
Amabel  had  winced,  knowing,  without 
raising  her  eyes  to  see  it,  how  his  face 
would  burn  with  humiliation  for  having 
so  betrayed  his  consciousness  of  differ- 
ence. Nothing  that  he  could  say  could 
hurt  her  for  herself. 

But  there  was  worse  to  bear :  after  the 
violence  of  his  anger  came  the  violence  of 
his  love.  She  had  borne  at  first,  dully, 
like  the  slave  she  felt  herself ;  for  she  had 
sold  herself  to  him,  given  herself  over 
bound  hand  and  foot.  But  now  it  became 
intolerable.  She  could  not  protest, — what 
was  there  to  protest  against,  or  to  appeal 
to?— but  she  could  fly.  The  thought  of 

53 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

flight  rose  in  her  after  the  torpor  of  de- 
spair and,  with  its  sense  of  wings,  it  felt 
almost  like  a  joy.  She  could  fly  back, 
back,  to  be  scourged  and  purified,  and 
then — oh  far  away  she  saw  it  now— 
was  something  beyond  despair;  life  once 
more;  life  hidden,  crippled,  but  life.  A 
prayer  rose  like  a  sob  with  the 
thought. 

So  one  night  in  London  her  brother 
Bertram,  coming  back  late  to  his  rooms, 
found  her  sitting  there. 

Bertram  was  hard,  but  not  unkind.  The 
sight  of  her  white,  fixed  face  touched  him. 
He  did  not  upbraid  her,  though  for  the 
past  week  he  had  rehearsed  the  bitterest 
of  upbraidings.  He  even  spoke  soothingly 
to  her  when,  speechless,  she  broke  into 
wild  sobs.  "There,  Amabel,  there. — Yes, 
it  's  a  frightful  mess  you  Ve  made  of 
things. — When  I  think  of  mother! — Well, 
I  '11  say  nothing  now.  You  have  come 
back;  that  is  something.  You  have  left 
him,  Amabel  ?" 

She  nodded,  her  face  hidden. 

54 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"The  brute,  the  scoundrel,"  said  Ber- 
tram, at  which  she  moaned  a  negation. — 
"You  don't  still  care  about  him? — Well,  I 
won't  question  you  now. — Perhaps  it  's 
not  so  desperate.  Hugh  has  been  very 
good  about  it ;  he  's  helped  me  to  keep  the 
thing  hushed  up  until  we  could  make  sure. 
I  hope  we  Ve  succeeded ;  I  hope  so  indeed. 
Hugh  will  see  you  soon,  I  know;  and  it 
can  be  patched  up,  no  doubt,  after  a 
fashion." 

But  at  this  Amabel  cried: — "I  can't. — 
I  can't. — Oh — take  me  away.— Let  me 
hide  until  he  divorces  me.  I  can't  see 
him." 

"Divorces  you?"  Bertram's  voice  was 
sharp.  "Have  you  disgraced  publicly — 
you  and  us?  It  's  not  you  I  'm  thinking 
of  so  much  as  the  family  name,  father  and 
mother.  Hugh  won't  divorce  you;  he 
can't ;  he  shan't.  After  all  you  're  a  mere 
child  and  he  did  n't  look  after  you."  But 
this  was  said  rather  in  threat  to  Hugh 
than  in  leniency  to  Amabel. 

She  lay  back  in  the  chair,  helpless,  al- 

55 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

most  lifeless:  let  them  do  with  her  what 
they  would. 

Bertram  said  that  she  should  spend  the 
night  there  and  that  he  would  see  Hugh  in 
the  morning.  And: — "No;  you  need  n't 
see  him  yet,  if  you  feel  you  can't.  It  may 
be  arranged  without  that.  Hugh  will  un- 
derstand." And  this  was  the  first  ray  of 
the  light  that  was  to  grow  and  grow. 
Hugh  would  understand. 

She  did  not  see  him  for  two  years. 

All  that  had  happened  after  her  return 
to  Bertram  was  a  blur  now.  There  were 
hasty  talks,  Bertram  defining  for  her  her 
future  position,  one  of  dignity  it  must  be — 
he  insisted  on  that ;  Hugh  perfectly  under- 
stood her  wish  for  the  present,  quite  fell 
in  with  it;  but,  eventually,  she  must  take 
her  place  in  her  husband's  home  again. 
Even  Bertram,  intent  as  he  was  on  the 
family  honour,  could  not  force  the  unwill- 
ing wife  upon  the  merely  magnanimous 
husband. 

Her  husband's  magnanimity  was  the 
radiance  that  grew  for  Amabel  during 

56 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

these  black  days,  the  days  of  hasty  talks 
and  of  her  journey  down  to  Charlock 
House. 

She  had  never  seen  Charlock  House  be- 
fore; Sir  Hugh  had  spoken  of  the  family 
seat  as  "a  dismal  hole,"  but,  on  that  hot 
July  evening  of  her  arrival,  it  looked 
peaceful  to  her,  a  dark  haven  of  refuge, 
like  the  promise  of  sleep  after  nightmare. 

Mrs.  Bray  stood  in  the  door,  a  grim  but 
not  a  hostile  warder:  Amabel  felt  anyone 
who  was  not  hostile  to  be  almost  kind. 

The  house  had  been  hastily  prepared  for 
her,  dining-room  and  drawing-room  and 
the  large  bedroom  upstairs,  having  the 
same  outlook  over  the  lawn,  the  syca- 
mores, the  flat  meadows.  She  could  see 
herself  standing  there  now,  looking  about 
her  at  the  bedroom  where  gaiety  and 
gauntness  were  oddly  mingled  in  the  faded 
carnations  and  birds  of  paradise  on  the 
chintzes  and  in  the  vastness  of  the  four- 
poster,  the  towering  wardrobes,  the 
capacious,  creaking  chairs  and  sofas. 
Everything  was  very  clean  and  old;  the 

57 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

dressing-table  was  stiffly  skirted  in  darned 
muslins  and  near  the  pin-cushion  stood  a 
small,  tight  nosegay,  Mrs.  Bray's  cautious 
welcome  to  this  ambiguous  mistress. 

"A  comfortable  old  place,  is  n't  it," 
Bertram  had  said,  looking  about,  too; 
"You  '11  soon  get  well  and  strong  here, 
Amabel."  This,  Amabel  knew,  was  said 
for  the  benefit  of  Mrs.  Bray  who  stood, 
non-committal  and  observant  just  inside 
the  door.  She  knew,  too,  that  Bertram 
was  depressed  by  the  gauntness  and  gaiety 
of  the  bedroom  and  even  more  depressed 
by  the  maroon  leather  furniture  and  the 
cases  of  stuffed  birds  below,  and  that  he 
was  at  once  glad  to  get  away  from  Char- 
lock House  and  sorry  for  her  that  she 
should  have  to  be  left  there,  alone  with 
Mrs.  Bray.  But  to  Amabel  it  was  a  dream 
after  a  nightmare.  A  strange,  desolate 
dream,  all  through  those  sultry  summer 
days;  but  a  dream  shot  through  with 
radiance  in  the  thought  of  the  magnani- 
mity that  had  spared  and  saved  her. 

And  with  the  coming  of  the  final  horror, 

58 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

came  the  final  revelation  of  this  radiance. 
She  had  been  at  Charlock  House  for  many 
weeks,  and  it  was  mid- Autumn,  when  that 
horror  came.  She  knew  that  she  was  to 
have  a  child  and  that  it  could  not  be  her 
husband's  child. 

With  the  knowledge  her  mind  seemed 
unmoored  at  last;  it  wavered  and  swung 
in  a  nightmare  blackness  deeper  than  any 
she  had  known.  In  her  physical  prostra- 
tion and  mental  disarray  the  thought  of 
suicide  was  with  her.  How  face  Bertram 
now,— Bertram  with  his  tenacious  hopes? 
How  face  her  husband— ever— ever — in 
the  far  future?  Her  disgrace  lived  and 
she  was  to  see  it.  But,  in  the  swinging 
chaos,  it  was  that  thought  that  kept  her 
from  frenzy ;  the  thought  that  it  did  live ; 
that  its  life  claimed  her ;  that  to  it  she  must 
atone.  She  did  not  love  this  child  that  was 
to  come ;  she  dreaded  it ;  yet  the  dread  was 
sacred,  a  burden  that  she  must  bear  for 
its  unhappy  sake.  What  did  she  not  owe 
to  it — unfortunate  one — of  atonement  and 
devotion  ? 

59 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

She  gathered  all  her  courage,  armed  her 
physical  weakness,  her  wandering  mind, 
to  summon  Bertram  and  to  tell  him. 

She  told  him  in  the  long  drawing-room 
on  a  sultry  September  day,  leaning  her 
arms  on  the  table  by  which  she  sat  and 
covering  her  face. 

Bertram  said  nothing  for  a  long  time. 
He  was  still  boyish  enough  to  feel  any 
such  announcement  as  embarrassing;  and 
that  it  should  be  told  him  now,  in  such  cir- 
cumstances, by  his  sister,  by  Amabel,  was 
nearly  incredible.  How  associate  such 
savage  natural  facts,  lawless  and  unap- 
peasable, with  that  young  figure,  dressed 
in  its  trousseau  white  muslin  and  with 
its  crown  of  innocent  gold.  It  made 
her  suddenly  seem  older  than  himself 
and  at  once  more  piteous  and  more 
sinister.  For  a  moment,  after  the  sheer 
stupor,  he  was  horribly  angry  with 
her;  then  came  dismay  at  his  own 
cruelty. 

"This  does  change  things,  Amabel,"  he 
said  at  last. 

60 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"Yes,"  she  answered  from  behind  her 
hands. 

"I  don't  know  how  Hugh  will  take  it," 
said  Bertram. 

"He  must  divorce  me  now,"  she  said. 
"It  can  be  done  very  quietly,  can't  it.  And 
I  have  money.  I  can  go  away,  somewhere, 
out  of  England — I  've  thought  of  America 
— or  New  Zealand — some  distant  country 
where  I  shall  never  be  heard  of;  I  can 
bring  up  the  child  there." 

Bertram  stared  at  her.  She  sat  at  the 
table,  her  hands  before  her  face,  in  the 
light,  girlish  dress  that  hung  loosely  about 
her.  She  was  fragile  and  wasted.  Her 
voice  seemed  dead.  And  he  wondered  at 
the  unhappy  creature's  courage. 

"Divorce !"  he  then  said  violently ;  "No ; 
he  can't  do  that; — and  he  had  forgiven 
already ;  I  don't  know  how  the  law  stands ; 
but  of  course  you  won't  go  away.  What 
an  idea;  you  might  as  well  kill  yourself 
outright.  It  's  only — .  I  don't  know  how 
the  law  stands.  I  don't  know  what  Hugh 
will  say." 

61 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

Bertram  walked  up  and  down  biting  his 
nails.  He  stopped  presently  before  a  win- 
dow, his  back  turned  to  his  sister,  and, 
flushing  over  the  words,  he  said:  "You 
are  sure — you  are  quite  sure,  Amabel,  that 
it  is  n't  Hugh's  child.  You  are  such  a 
girl.  You  can  know  nothing. — I  mean- 
it  may  be  a  mistake." 

"I  am  quite  sure,"  the  unmoved  voice 
answered  him.    "I  do  know." 

Bertram  again  stood  silent.  "Well,"  he 
said  at  last,  turning  to  her  though  he  did 
not  look  at  her,  "all  I  can  do  is  to  see  how 
Hugh  takes  it.  You  know,  Amabel,  that 
you  can  count  on  me.  I  '11  see  after  you, 
and  after  the  child.  Hugh  may,  of  course, 
insist  on  your  parting  from  it;  that  will 
probably  be  the  condition  he  '11  make; — 
naturally.  In  that  case  I  '11  take  you 
abroad  soon.  It  can  be  got  through,  I 
suppose,  without  anybody  knowing;  as- 
sumed names;  some  Swiss  or  Italian  vil- 
lage— "  Bertram  muttered,  rather  to  him- 
self than  to  her.  "Good  God,  what  an 
odious  business!— But,  as  you  say,  we 
62 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

have  money;  that  simplifies  everything. 
You  must  n't  worry  about  the  child.  I 
will  see  that  it  is  put  into  safe  hands  and 
I  '11  keep  an  eye  on  its  future—."  He 
stopped,  for  his  sister's  hands  had  fallen. 
She  was  gazing  at  him,  still  dully — for  it 
seemed  that  nothing  could  strike  any  ex- 
citement from  her — but  with  a  curious 
look,  a  look  that  again  made  him  feel  as 
if  she  were  much  older  than  he. 

"Never,"  she  said. 

"Never  what?"  Bertram  asked.  "You 
mean  you  won't  part  from  the  child?" 

"Never;  never,"  she  repeated. 

"But  Amabel,"  with  cold  patience  he 
urged;  "if  Hugh  insists. — My  poor  girl, 
you  have  made  your  bed  and  you  must  lie 
on  it.  You  can't  expect  your  husband  to 
give  this  child — this  illegitimate  child — 
his  name.  You  can't  expect  him  to  accept 
it  as  his  child." 

"No ;  I  don't  expect  it,"  she  said. 

"Well,  what  then?  What 's  your  alter- 
native ?" 

"I  must  go  away  with  the  child." 

63 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"I  tell  you,  Amabel,  it  's  impossible," 
Bertram  in  his  painful  anxiety  spoke  with 
irritation.  "You  've  got  to  consider  our 
name — my  name,  my  position,  and  your 
husband's.  Heaven  knows  I  want  to  be 
kind  to  you — do  all  I  can  for  you;  I  've 
not  once  reproached  you,  have  I?  But 
you  must  be  reasonable.  Some  things  you 
must  accept  as  your  punishment.  Unless 
Hugh  is  the  most  fantastically  generous 
of  men  you  '11  have  to  part  from  the  child." 

She  sat  silent. 

"You  do  consent  to  that?"  Bertram  in- 
sisted. 

She  looked  before  her  with  that  dull, 
that  stupid  look.  "No,"  she  replied, 

Bertram's  patience  gave  way,  "You 
are  mad,"  he  said.  "Have  you  no  consid- 
eration for  me — for  us?  You  behave  like 
this — incredibly,  in  my  mother's  daughter 
— never  a  girl  better  brought  up;  you  go 
off  with  that — that  bounder; — you  stay 
with  him  for  a  week — good  heavens! — 
there  'd  have  been  more  dignity  if  you  'd 
stuck  to  him;— you  chuck  him,  in  one 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

week,  and  then  you  come  back  and  expect 
us  to  do  as  you  think  fit,  to  let  you  disap- 
pear and  everyone  know  that  you  've  be- 
trayed your  husband  and  had  a  child  by 
another  man.  It  's  mad,  I  tell  you,  and 
it  's  impossible,  and  you  Ve  got  to  submit. 
Do  you  hear  ?  Will  you  answer  me,  I  say  ? 
Will  you  promise  that  if  Hugh  won't  con- 
sent to  fathering  the  child — won't  consent 
to  giving  it  his  name — won't  consent  to 
having  it,  as  his  heir,  disinherit  the  lawful 
children  he  may  have  by  you — good  heav- 
ens, I  wonder  if  you  realize  what  you  are 
asking! — will  you  promise,  I  say,  if  he 
does  n't  consent,  to  part  from  the  child?" 

She  did  look  rather  mad,  her  brother 
thought,  and  he  remembered,  with  dis- 
comfort, that  women,  at  such  times,  did 
sometimes  lose  their  reason.  Her  eyes 
with  their  dead  gaze  nearly  frightened 
him,  when,  after  all  his  violence,  his  en- 
treaty, his  abuse  of  her,  she  only,  in  an 
unchanged  voice,  said  "No." 

He  felt  then  the  uselessness  of  protesta- 
tion or  threat;  she  must  be  treated  as  if 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

she  were  mad ;  humored,  cajoled.  He  was 
silent  for  a  little  while,  walking  up  and 
down.  "Well,  I  '11  say  no  more,  then. 
Forgive  me  for  my  harshness,"  he  said. 
"You  give  me  a  great  deal  to  bear,  Ama- 
bel ;  but  I  '11  say  nothing  now.  I  have  your 
word,  at  all  events,"  he  looked  sharply 
at  her  as  the  sudden  suspicion  crossed  him, 
"I  have  your  word  that  you  '11  stay  quietly 
here— until  you  hear  from  me  what  Hugh 
says?  You  promise  me  that?" 

"Yes,"  his  sister  answered.    He  gave  a 
sigh  for  the  sorry  relief. 

That  night  Amabel's  mind  wandered 
wildly.  She  heard  herself,  in  the  lonely 
room  where  she  lay,  calling  out  meaning- 
less things.  She  tried  to  control  the  hor- 
ror of  fear  that  rose  in  her  and  peopled 
the  room  with  phantoms ;  but  the  fear  ran 
curdling  in  her  veins  and  flowed  about 
her,  shaping  itself  in  forms  of  misery  and 
disaster.  "No — no— poor  child. — Oh — 
don't — don't. — I  will  come  to  you.  I  am 
your  mother. — They  can't  take  you  from 
me." — this  was  the  most  frequent  cry. 
66 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

The  poor  child  hovered,  wailing,  deliv- 
ered over  to  vague,  unseen  sorrow,  and, 
though  a  tiny  infant,  it  seemed  to  be  Paul 
Quentin,  too,  in  some  dreadful  plight,  ap- 
pealing to  her  in  the  name  of  their  dead 
love  to  save  him.  She  did  not  love  him; 
she  did  not  love  the  child;  but  her  heart 
seemed  broken  with  impotent  pity. 

In  the  intervals  of  nightmare  she  could 
look,  furtively,  fixedly,  about  the  room. 
The  moon  was  bright  outside,  and  through 
the  curtains  a  pallid  light  showed  the  men- 
acing forms  of  the  two  great  wardrobes. 
The  four  posts  of  her  bed  seemed  like  the 
pillars  of  some  vast,  alien  temple,  and  the 
canopy,  far  above  her,  floated  like  a 
threatening  cloud.  Opposite  her  bed, 
above  the  chimney-piece,  was  a  deeply 
glimmering  mirror:  if  she  were  to  raise 
herself  she  would  see  her  own  white  re- 
flection, rising,  ghastly. — She  hid  her  face 
on  her  pillows  and  sank  again  into  the 
abyss. 

Next  morning  she  could  not  get  up. 
Her  pulses  were  beating  at  fever  speed; 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

but,  with  the  daylight,  her  mind  was 
clearer.  She  could  summon  her  quiet  look 
when  Mrs.  Bray  came  in  to  ask  her  mourn- 
fully how  she  was.  And  a  little  later  a 
telegram  came,  from  Bertram. 

Her  trembling  hands  could  hardly  open 
it.  She  read  the  words.  "All  is  well." 
Mrs.  Bray  stood  beside  her  bed.  She 
meant  to  keep  that  quiet  look  for  Mrs. 
Bray;  but  she  fainted.  Mrs.  Bray,  while 
she  lay  tumbled  among  the  pillows,  and 
before  lifting  her,  read  the  message 
hastily. 

From  the  night  of  torment  and  the 
shock  of  joy,  Amabel  brought  an  extreme 
susceptibility  to  emotion  that  showed  it- 
self through  all  her  life  in  a  trembling  of 
her  hands  and  frame  when  any  stress  of 
feeling  was  laid  upon  her. 

After  that  torment  and  that  shock  she 
saw  Bertram  once,  and  only  once,  again; 
— ah,  strange  and  sad  in  her  memory  that 
final  meeting  of  their  lives,  though  this 
miraculous  news  was  the  theme  of  it. 
She  was  still  in  bed  when  he  came,  the 
68 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

bed  she  did  not  leave  for  months,  and, 
though  so  weak  and  dizzy,  she  understood 
all  that  he  told  her,  knew  the  one  supreme 
fact  of  her  husband's  goodness.  He  sent 
her  word  that  she  was  to  be  troubled  about 
nothing;  she  was  to  take  everything  easily 
and  naturally.  She  should  always  have 
her  child  with  her  and  it  should  bear  his 
name.  He  would  see  after  it  like  a  father ; 
it  should  never  know  that  he  was  not  its 
father.  And,  as  soon  as  she  would  let  him, 
he  would  come  and  see  her — and  it.  Ama- 
bel, lying  on  her  pillows,  gazed  and  gazed : 
her  eyes,  in  their  shadowy  hollows,  were 
two  dark  wells  of  sacred  wonder.  Even 
Bertram  felt  something  of  the  wonder  of 
them.  In  his  new  gladness  and  relief,  he 
was  very  kind  to  her.  He  came  and  kissed 
her.  She  seemed,  once  more,  a  person 
whom  one  could  kiss.  "Poor  dear,"  he 
said,  "you  have  had  a  lot  to  bear.  You  do 
look  dreadfully  ill.  You  must  get  well  and 
strong,  now,  Amabel,  and  not  worry  any 
more,  about  anything.  Everything  is  all 
right.  We  will  call  the  child  Augustine, 

69 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

if  it  's  a  boy,  after  mother's  father  you 
know,  and  Katherine,  if  it  's  a  girl,  after 
her  mother :  I  feel,  don't  you,  that  we  have 
no  right  to  use  their  own  names.  But  the 
further  away  ones  seem  right,  now.  Hugh 
is  a  trump,  is  n't  he  ?  And,  I  'm  sure  of  it, 
Amabel,  when  time  has  passed  a  little,  and 
you  feel  you  can,  he  '11  have  you  back;  I 
do  really  believe  it  may  be  managed.  This 
can  all  be  explained.  I  'm  saying  that  you 
are  ill,  a  nervous  breakdown,  and  are  hav- 
ing a  complete  rest." 

She  heard  him  dimly,  feeling  these 
words  irrelevant.  She  knew  that  Hugh 
must  never  have  her  back;  that  she  could 
never  go  back  to  Hugh;  that  her  life 
henceforth  was  dedicated.  And  yet  Ber- 
tram was  kind,  she  felt  that,  though  dimly 
feeling,  too,  that  her  old  image  of  him  had 
grown  tarnished.  But  her  mind  was  far 
from  Bertram  and  the  mitigations  he  of- 
fered. She  was  fixed  on  that  radiant  fig- 
ure, her  husband,  her  knight,  who  had 
stooped  to  her  in  her  abasement,  her 
agony,  and  had  lifted  her  from  dust  and 
70 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

darkness  to  the  air  where  she  could 
breathe,— and  bless  him. 

"Tell  him— I  bless  him,"— she  said  to 
Bertram.  She  could  say  nothing  more. 
There  were  other  memories  of  that  day, 
too,  but  even  more  dim,  more  irrelevant. 
Bertram  had  brought  papers  for  her  to 
sign,  saying:  "I  know  you  '11  want  to  be 
very  generous  with  Hugh  now,"  and  she 
had  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  to  trace 
with  the  fingers  that  trembled  the  words 
he  dictated  to  her. 

There  was  sorrow,  indeed,  to  look  back 
on  after  that.  Poor  Bertram  died  only  a 
month  later,  struck  down  by  an  infectious 
illness.  He  was  not  to  see  or  supervise 
the  rebuilding  of  his  sister's  shattered  life, 
and  the  anguish  in  her  sorrow  was  the 
thought  of  all  the  pain  that  she  had 
brought  to  his  last  months  of  life :  but  this 
sorrow,  after  the  phantoms,  the  night- 
mares, was  like  the  weeping  of  tears  after 
a  dreadful  weeping  of  blood.  Her  tears 
fell  as  she  lay  there,  propped  on  her  pil- 
lows— for  she  was  very  ill — and  looking 

71 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

out  over  the  Autumn  fields;  she  wept  for 
poor  Bertram  and  all  the  pain;  life  was 
sad.  But  life  was  good  and  beautiful. 
After  the  flames,  the  suffocation,  it  had 
brought  her  here,  and  it  showed  her  that 
radiant  figure,  that  goodness  and  beauty 
embodied  in  human  form.  And  she  had 
more  to  help  her,  for  he  wrote  to  her,  a 
few  delicately  chosen  words,  hardly  touch- 
ing on  their  own  case,  his  and  hers,  but 
about  her  brother's  death  and  of  how 
he  felt  for  her  in  her  bereavement, 
and  of  what  a  friend  dear  Bertram 
had  been  to  himself.  "Some  day,  dear 
Amabel,  you  must  let  me  come  and  see 
you"  it  ended;  and  "Your  affectionate 
husband." 

It  was  almost  too  wonderful  to  be 
borne.  She  had  to  close  her  eyes  in  think- 
ing of  it  and  to  lie  very  still,  holding  the 
blessed  letter  in  her  hand  and  smiling 
faintly  while  she  drew  long  soft  breaths. 
He  was  always  in  her  thoughts,  her  hus- 
band; more,  far  more,  than  her  coming 
child.  It  was  her  husband  who  had  made 
72 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

that  coming  a  thing  possible  to  look  for- 
ward to  with  resignation ;  it  was  no  longer 
the  nightmare  of  desolate  flights  and  hid- 
ings. 

And  even  after  the  child  was  born, 
after  she  had  seen  its  strange  little  face, 
even  then,  though  it  was  all  her  life,  all 
her  future,  it  held  the  second  place  in  her 
heart.  It  was  her  life,  but  it  was  from 
her  husband  that  the  gift  of  life  had  come 
to  her. 

She  was  a  gentle,  a  solicitous,  a  devoted 
mother.  She  never  looked  at  her  baby 
without  a  sense  of  tears.  Unfortunate 
one,  was  her  thought,  and  the  pulse  of  her 
life  was  the  yearning  to  atone. 

She  must  be  strong  and  wise  for  her 
child  and  out  of  her  knowledge  of  sin  and 
weakness  in  herself  must  guide  and  guard 
it.  But  in  her  yearning,  in  her  brooding 
thought,  was  none  of  the  mother's  rap- 
turous folly  and  gladness.  She  never 
kissed  her  baby.  Some  dark  association 
made  the  thought  of  kisses  an  unholy 
thing  and  when,  forgetting,  she  leaned  to 

73 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

it  sometimes,  thoughtless,  and  delighting 
in  littleness  and  sweetness,  the  dark  mem- 
ory of  guilt  would  rise  between  its  lips 
and  hers,  so  that  she  would  grow  pale  and 
draw  back. 

When  first  she  saw  her  husband,  Au- 
gustine was  over  a  year  old.  Sir  Hugh 
had  written  and  asked  if  he  might  not 
come  down  one  day  and  spend  an  hour 
with  her.  "And  let  all  the  old  fogies  see 
that  we  are  friends,"  he  said,  in  his  re- 
membered playful  vein. 

It  was  in  the  long  dark  drawing-room 
that  she  had  seen  him  for  the  first  time 
since  her  flight  into  the  wilderness. 

He  had  come  in,  grave,  yet  with  some- 
thing blithe  and  unperturbed  in  his  bear- 
ing that,  as  she  stood  waiting  for  what  he 
might  say  to  her,  seemed  the  very  nimbus 
of  chivalry.  He  was  splendid  to  look  at, 
too,  tall  and  strong  with  clear  kind  eyes 
and  clear  kind  smile. 

She  could  not  speak,  not  even  when  he 
came  and  took  her  hand,  and  said :  "Well 
Amabel."  And  then,  seeing  how  white 

74 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

she  was  and  how  she  trembled,  he  had 
bent  his  head  and  kissed  her  hand.  And 
at  that  she  had  broken  into  tears ;  but  they 
were  tears  of  joy. 

He  stood  beside  her  while  she  wept,  her 
hands  before  her  face,  just  touching  her 
shoulder  with  a  paternal  hand,  and  she 
heard  him  saying:  "Poor  little  Amabel: 
poor  little  girl." 

She  took  her  chair  beside  the  table  and 
for  a  long  time  she  kept  her  face  hidden : 
"Thank  you ;  thank  you ;"  was  all  that  she 
could  say. 

"My  dear,  what  for?— There,  don't 
cry. — You  have  stopped  crying?  There, 
poor  child.  I  Ve  been  awfully  sorry  for 
you." 

He  would  not  let  her  try  to  say  how 
good  he  was,  and  this  was  a  relief,  for  she 
knew  that  she  could  not  put  it  into  words 
and  that,  without  words,  he  understood. 
He  even  laughed  a  little,  with  a  graceful 
embarrassment,  at  her  speechless  grati- 
tude. And  presently,  when  they  talked, 
she  could  put  down  her  hand,  could  look 

•  75 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

round  at  him,  while  she  answered  that, 
yes,  she  was  very  comfortable  at  Char- 
lock House;  yes,  no  place  could  suit  her 
more  perfectly;  yes,  Mrs.  Bray  was  very 
kind. 

And  he  talked  a  little  about  business 
with  her,  explaining  that  Bertram's  death 
had  left  him  with  a  great  deal  of  manage- 
ment on  his  hands ;  he  must  have  her  sig- 
nature to  papers,  and  all  this  was  done 
with  the  easiest  tact  so  that  naturalness 
and  simplicity  should  grow  between  them ; 
so  that,  in  finding  pen  and  papers  in  her 
desk,  in  asking  where  she  was  to  sign,  in 
obeying  the  pointing  of  his  finger  here 
and  there,  she  should  recover  something 
of  her  quiet,  and  be  able  to  smile,  even,  a 
little  answering  smile,  when  he  said 
that  he  should  make  a  business  woman 
of  her.  And — "Rather  a  shame  that  I 
should  take  your  money  like  this,  Amabel, 
but,  with  all  Bertram's  money,  you 
are  quite  a  bloated  capitalist.  I  'm 
rather  hard  up,  and  you  don't  grudge  it, 
I  know." 

76 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

She  flushed  all  over  at  the  idea,  even 
said  in  jest : — "All  that  I  have  is  yours." 

"Ah,  well,  not  all,"  said  Sir  Hugh. 
"You  must  remember — other  claims." 
And  he,  too,  flushed  a  little  now  in  saying, 
gently,  tentatively;— "May  I  see  the  little 
boy?" 

"I  will  bring  him,"  said  Amabel. 

How  she  remembered,  all  her  life  long, 
that  meeting  of  her  husband  and  her  son. 
It  was  the  late  afternoon  of  a  bright  June 
day  and  the  warm  smell  of  flowers  floated 
in  at  the  open  windows  of  the  drawing- 
room.  She  did  not  let  the  nurse  bring 
Augustine,  she  carried  him  down  herself. 
He  was  a  large,  robust  baby  with  thick, 
corn-colored  hair  and  a  solemn,  beautiful 
little  face.  Amabel  came  in  with  him  and 
stood  before  her  husband  holding  him  and 
looking  down.  Confusion  was  in  her 
mind,  a  mingling  of  pride  and  shame. 

Sir  Hugh  and  the  baby  eyed  each  other, 
with  some  intentness.  And,  as  the  silence 
grew  a  little  long,  Sir  Hugh  touched  the 
child's  cheek  with  his  finger  and  said: 

77 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"Nice  little  fellow:  splendid  little  fellow. 
How  old  is  he,  Amabel?  Is  n't  he  very 
big?" 

"A  year  and  two  months.  Yes,  he  is 
very  big." 

"He  looks  like  you,  does  n't  he?" 

"Does  he?"  she  said  faintly. 

"Just  your  colour,"  Sir  Hugh  assured 
her.  "As  grave  as  a  little  king,  is  n't  he. 
How  firmly  he  looks  at  me." 

"He  is  grave,  but  he  never  cries;  he  is 
very  cheerful,  too,  and  well  and  strong." 

"He  looks  it.  He  does  you  credit. 
Well,  my  little  man,  shall  we  be  friends  ?" 
Sir  Hugh  held  out  his  hand.  Augustine 
continued  to  gaze  at  him,  unmoving.  "He 
won't  shake  hands,"  said  Sir  Hugh. 

Amabel  took  the  child's  hand  and  placed 
it  in  her  husband's ;  her  own  fingers  shook. 
But  Augustine  drew  back  sharply,  doub- 
ling his  arm  against  his  breast,  though 
not  wavering  in  his  gaze  at  the  stranger. 

Sir  Hugh  laughed  at  the  decisive  rejec- 
tion. "Friendship  's  on  one  side,  till 
later,"  he  said. 

78 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

» 

WHEN   her  husband  had  gone  Amabel 

went  out  into  the  sycamore  wood.  It  was 
a  pale,  cool  evening.  The  sun  had  set  and 
the  sky  beyond  the  sycamores  was  golden. 
Above,  in  a  sky  of  liquid  green,  the  even- 
ing star  shone  softly. 

A  joy,  sweet,  cold,  pure,  like  the  even- 
ing, was  in  her  heart.  She  stopped  in  the 
midst  of  the  little  wood  among  the  trees, 
and  stood  still,  closing  her  eyes. 

Something  old  was  coming  back  to  her ; 
something  new  was  being  given.  The 
memory  of  her  mother's  eyes  was  in  it,  of 
the  simple  prayers  taught  her  by  her 
mother  in  childhood,  and  the  few  words, 
rare  and  simple,  of  the  presence  of  God  in 
the  soul.  But  her  girlish  prayer,  her  girl- 
ish thought  of  God,  had  been  like  a 
thread-like,  singing  brook.  What  came  to 
her  now  grew  from  the  brook-like  run- 
ning of  trust  and  innocence  to  a  widening 
river,  to  a  sea  that  filled  her,  over-flowed 
her,  encompassed  her,  in  whose  power  she 
was  weak,  through  whose  power  her 
weakness  was  uplifted  and  made  strong. 

79 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

It  was  as  if  a  dark  curtain  of  fear  and 
pain  lifted  from  her  soul,  showing  vast- 
ness,  and  deep  upon  deep  of  stars.  Yet, 
though  this  that  came  to  her  was  so  vast, 
it  made  itself  small  and  tender,  too,  like 
the  flowers  glimmering  about  her  feet,  the 
breeze  fanning  her  hair  and  garments, 
the  birds  asleep  in  the  branches  above  her. 
She  held  out  her  hands,  for  it  seemed  to 
fall  like  dew,  and  she  smiled,  her  face  up- 
lifted. 

SHE  did  not  often  see  her  husband  in  the 
quiet  years  that  followed.  She  did  not 
feel  that  she  needed  to  see  him.  It  was 
enough  to  know  that  he  was  there,  good 
and  beautiful. 

She  knew  that  she  idealised  him,  that 
in  ordinary  aspects  he  was  a  happy,  easy 
man-of-the-world ;  but  that  was  not  the 
essential;  the  essential  in  him  was  the 
pity,  the  tenderness,  the  comprehension 
that  had  responded  to  her  great  need.  He 
was  very  unconscious  of  aims  or  ideals; 
80 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

but  when  the  time  for  greatness  came  he 
showed  it  as  naturally  and  simply  as  a 
flower  expands  to  light.  The  thought  of 
him  henceforth  was  bound  up  with  the 
thought  of  her  religion;  nothing  of  rap- 
ture or  ecstasy  was  in  it;  it  was  quiet  and 
grave,  a  revelation  of  holiness. 

It  was  as  if  she  had  been  kneeling  to 
pray,  alone,  in  a  dark,  devastated  church, 
trembling,  and  fearing  the  darkness,  not 
daring  to  approach  the  unseen  altar;  and 
that  then  her  husband's  hand  had  lighted 
all  the  high  tapers  one  by  one,  so  that  the 
church  was  filled  with  radiance  and  the 
divine  made  manifest  to  her  again. 

Light  and  quietness  were  to  go  with 
her,  but  they  were  not  to  banish  fear. 
They  could  only  help  her  to  live  with  fear 
and  to  find  life  beautiful  in  spite  of  it. 

For  if  her  husband  stood  for  the  joy  of 
life,  her  child  stood  for  its  sorrow.  He 
was  the  dark  past  and  the  unknown  fu- 
ture. What  she  should  find  in  him  was 
un revealed;  and  though  she  steadied  her 
81 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

soul  to  the  acceptance  of  whatever  the 
future  might  bring  of  pain  for  her,  the 
sense  of  trembling  was  with  her  always 
in  the  thought  of  what  it  might  bring  of 
pain  for  Augustine. 


82 


IV 


'ADY  CHANNICE  woke  on 
the  morning  after  her  long  ret- 
^  rospect  bringing  from  her 
dreams  a  heavy  heart. 

She  lay  for  some  moments  after  the 
maid  had  drawn  her  curtains,  looking  out 
at  the  fields  as  she  had  so  often  looked, 
and  wondering  why  her  heart  was  heavy. 
Throb  by  throb,  like  a  leaden  shuttle,  it 
seemed  to  weave  together  the  old  and  new 
memories,  so  that  she  saw  the  pattern  of 
yesterday  and  of  today,  Lady  Elliston's 
coming,  the  pain  that  Augustine  had 
given  her  in  his  strange  questionings,  the 
meeting  of  her  husband  and  her  son.  And 
the  ominous  rhythm  of  the  shuttle  was 
like  the  footfall  of  the  past  creeping  upon 
her. 

It  was  more  difficult  than  it  had  been 

83 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

for  years,  this  morning,  to  quiet  the  throb, 
to  stay  her  thoughts  on  strength.  She 
could  not  pray,  for  her  thoughts,  like  her 
heart,  were  leaden;  the  whispered  words 
carried  no  message  as  they  left  her  lips; 
she  could  not  lift  her  thought  to  follow 
them.  It  was  upon  a  lesser,  a  merely  hu- 
man strength,  that  she  found  herself 
dwelling.  She  was  too  weak,  too  trou- 
bled, to  find  the  swiftness  of  soul 
that  could  soar  with  its  appeal,  the  still- 
ness of  soul  where  the  divine  response 
could  enter;  and  weakness  turned  to 
human  help.  The  thought  of  her  hus- 
band's coming  was  like  a  glow  of  firelight 
seen  at  evening  on  a  misty  moor.  She 
could  hasten  towards  it,  quelling  fear. 
There  she  would  be  safe.  By  his  mere 
presence  he  would  help  and  sustain  her. 
He  would  be  kind  and  tactful  with  Au- 
gustine, as  he  had  always  been ;  he  would 
make  a  shield  between  her  and  Lady  El- 
liston.  She  could  see  no  sky  above,  and 
the  misty  moor  loomed  with  uncertain 
shapes ;  but  she  could  look  before  her  and 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

feel  that  she  went  towards  security  and 
brightness. 

Augustine  and  his  mother  both  studied 
during  the  day,  the  same  studies,  for  Lady 
Channice,  to  a  great  extent,  shared  her 
son's  scholarly  pursuits.  From  his  boy- 
hood— a  studious,  grave,  yet  violent  little 
boy  he  had  been,  his  fits  of  passionate  out- 
break quelled,  as  he  grew  older,  by  the 
mere  example  of  her  imperturbability  be- 
side him — she  had  thus  shared  everything. 
She  had  made  herself  his  tutor  as  well  as 
his  guardian  angel.  She  was  more  tutor, 
more  guardian  angel,  than  mother. 

Their  mental  comradeship  was  full  of 
mutual  respect.  And  though  Augustine 
was  not  of  the  religious  temperament, 
though  his  mother's  instinct  told  her  that 
in  her  lighted  church  he  would  be  a  re- 
spectful looker-on  rather  than  a  fellow- 
worshipper,  though  they  never  spoke  of 
religion,  just  as  they  seldom  kissed,  Au- 
gustine's growing  absorption  in  metaphys- 
ics tinged  their  friendship  with  a  religious 
gravity  and  comprehension. 

85 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

On  three  mornings  in  the  week  Lady 
Channice  had  a  class  for  the  older  village 
girls;  she  sewed,  read  and  talked  with 
them,  and  was  fond  of  them  all.  These 
girls,  their  placing  in  life,  their  marriages 
and  babies,  were  her  most  real  interest  in 
the  outer  world.  During  the  rest  of  the 
day  she  gardened,  and  read  whatever 
books  Augustine  might  be  reading.  It 
was  the  mother  and  son's  habit  thus  to 
work  apart  and  to  discuss  work  in  the 
evenings. 

Today,  when  her  girls  were  gone,  she 
found  herself  very  lonely.  Augustine 
was  out  riding  and  in  her  room  she  tried 
to  occupy  herself,  fearing  her  own 
thoughts.  It  was  past  twelve  when  she 
heard  the  sound  of  his  horse's  hoofs  on 
the  gravel  before  the  door  and,  throwing 
a  scarf  over  her  hair,  she  ran  down  to 
meet  him. 

The  hall  door  at  Charlock  House,  un- 
der a  heavy  portico,  looked  out  upon  a 
circular  gravel  drive  bordered  by  shrub- 
beries and  enclosed  by  high  walls ;  beyond 
86 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

the  walls  and  gates  was  the  high-road. 
An  interval  of  sunlight  had  broken  into 
the  chill  Autumn  day :  Augustine  had  rid- 
den bareheaded  and  his  gold  hair  shone  as 
the  sun  fell  upon  it.  He  looked,  in  his 
stately  grace,  like  an  equestrian  youth  on 
a  Greek  frieze.  And,  as  was  usual  with 
his  mother,  her  appreciation  of  Augus- 
tine's nobility  and  fineness  passed  at  once 
into  a  pang :  so  beautiful ;  so  noble ;  and  so 
shadowed.  She  stood,  her  black  scarf 
about  her  face  and  shoulders,  and  smiled 
at  him  while  he  threw  the  reins  to  the  old 
groom  and  dismounted. 

"Nice  to  find  you  waiting  for  me,"  he 
said.  "I  'm  late  this  morning.  Too  late 
for  any  work  before  lunch.  Don't  you 
want  a  little  walk?  You  look  pale." 

"I  should  like  it  very  much.  I  may  miss 
my  afternoon  walk— your  father  may 
have  business  to  talk  over." 

They  went  through  the  broad  stone 
hall-way  that  traversed  the  house  and 
stepped  out  on  the  gravel  walk  at  the 
back.  This  path,  running  below  the  draw- 

87 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

ing-room  and  dining-room  windows,  led 
down  on  one  side  to  the  woods,  on  the 
other  to  Lady  Channice's  garden,  and  was 
a  favourite  place  of  theirs  for  quiet  saun- 
terings.  Today  the  sunlight  fell  mildly 
on  it.  A  rift  of  pale  blue  showed  in  the 
still  grey  sky. 

"I  met  Marjory,"  said  Augustine,  "and 
we  had  a  gallop  over  Pangley  Common. 
She  rides  well,  that  child.  We  jumped 
the  hedge  and  ditch  at  the  foot  of  the 
common,  you  know — the  high  hedge — for 
practice.  She  goes  over  like  a  bird." 

Amabel's  mind  was  dwelling  on  the 
thought  of  shadowed  brightness  and 
Marjory,  fresh,  young,  deeply  rooted  in 
respectability,  seemed  suddenly  more  sig- 
nificant than  she  had  ever  been  before. 
In  no  way  Augustine's  equal,  of  course, 
except  in  that  impersonal,  yet  so  impor- 
tant matter  of  roots;  Amabel  had  known 
a  little  irritation  over  Mrs.  Grey's  open 
manoeuvreings ;  but  on  this  morning  of 
rudderless  tossing,  Marjory  appeared  in  a 
new  aspect.  How  sound;  how  safe.  It 
88 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

was  of  Augustine's  insecurity  rather  than 
of  Augustine  himself  that  she  was  think- 
ing as  she  said:  "She  is  such  a  nice  girl." 

"Yes,  she  is,"  said  Augustine. 

"What  did  you  talk  about?" 

"Oh,  the  things  we  saw;  birds  and 
trees  and  clouds.— I  pour  information 
upon  her." 

"She  likes  that,  one  can  see  it." 

"Yes,  she  is  so  nice  and  guileless  that 
she  does  n't  resent  my  pedantry.  I  love 
giving  information,  you  know,"  Augus- 
tine smiled.  He  looked  about  him  as  he 
spoke,  at  birds  and  trees  and  clouds, 
happy,  humorous,  clasping  his  riding  crop 
behind  his  back  so  that  his  mother  heard 
it  make  a  pleasant  little  click  against  his 
gaiter  as  he  walked. 

"It 's  delightful  for  both  of  you,  such  a 
comradeship." 

"Yes;  a  comradeship  after  a  fashion; 
Marjory  is  just  like  a  nice  little  boy." 

"Ah,  well,  she  is  growing  up;  she  is 
seventeen,  you  know.  She  is  more  than 
a  little  boy." 

89 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"Not  much;  she  never  will  be  much 
more." 

"She  will  make  a  very  nice  woman." 

Augustine  continued  to  smile,  partly  at 
the  thought  of  Marjory,  and  partly  at  an- 
other thought.  "You  must  n't  make 
plans,  for  me  and  Marjory,  like  Mrs. 
Grey,"  he  said  presently.  "It  's  mothers 
like  Mrs.  Grey  who  spoil  comradeships. 
You  know,  I  '11  never  marry  Marjory. 
She  is  a  nice  little  boy,  and  we  are  friends ; 
but  she  does  n't  interest  me." 

"She  may  grow  more  interesting:  she 
is  so  young.  I  don't  make  plans,  dear, — 
yet  I  think  that  it  might  be  a  happy  thing 
for  you." 

"She  '11  never  interest  me,"  said  Augus- 
tine. 

"Must  you  have  a  very  interesting 
wife?" 

"Of  course  I  must:— she  must  be  as  in- 
teresting as  you  are!"  he  turned  his  head 
to  smile  at  her. 

"You  are  not  exacting,  dear!" 

"Yes,  I  am,  though.  She  must  be  as  in- 
90 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

teresting  as  you — and  as  good;  else 
why  should  I  leave  you  and  go  and  live 
with  someone  else. — Though  for  that 
matter,  I  should  n't  leave  you.  You  'd 
have  to  live  with  us,  you  know,  if  I  ever 
married." 

"Ah,  my  dear  boy,"  Lady  Channice 
murmured.  She  managed  a  smile  pres- 
ently and  added :  "You  might  fall  in  love 
with  someone  not  so  interesting.  You 
can't  be  sure  of  your  feelings  and  your 
mind  going  together." 

"My  feelings  will  have  to  submit  them- 
selves to  my  mind.  I  don't  know  about 
'falling';  I  rather  dislike  the  expression: 
one  might  'fall'  in  love  with  lots  of  people 
one  would  never  dream  of  marrying.  It 
would  have  to  be  real  love.  I  'd  have  to 
love  a  woman  very  deeply  before  I  wanted 
her  to  share  my  life,  to  be  a  part  of  me;  to 
be  the  mother  of  my  children."  He  spoke 
with  his  cheerful  gravity. 

"You  have  an  old  head  on  very  young 
shoulders,  Augustine." 

"I  really  believe  I  have!"  he  accepted 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

her  somewhat  sadly  humorous  statement; 
"and  that  's  why  I  don't  believe  I  '11  ever 
make  a  mistake.  I  'd  rather  never  marry 
than  make  a  mistake.  I  know  I  sound 
priggish;  but  I  've  thought  a  good  deal 
about  it:  I  Ve  had  to."  He  paused  for  a 
moment,  and  then,  in  the  tone  of  quiet, 
unconfused  confidence  that  always  filled 
her  with  a  sense  of  mingled  pride  and  hu- 
mility, he  added:  — "I  have  strong  pas- 
sions, and  I  Ve  already  seen  what  happens 
to  people  who  allow  feeling  to  govern 
them." 

Amabel  was  suddenly  afraid.  "I  know 
that  you  would  always  be — good  Augus- 
tine; I  can  trust  you  for  that."  She  spoke 
faintly. 

They  had  now  walked  down  to  the  little 
garden  with  its  box  borders  and  were 
wandering  vaguely  among  the  late  roses. 
She  paused  to  look  at  the  roses,  stooping 
to  breathe  in  the  fragrance  of  a  tall  white 
cluster:  it  was  an  instinctive  impulse  of 
hiding:  she  hoped  in  another  moment  to 
find  an  escape  in  some  casual  gardening 
92 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

remark.  But  Augustine,  unsuspecting, 
was  interested  in  their  theme. 

"Good?  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "I 
don't  think  it  's  goodness,  exactly.  It  's 
that  I  so  loathe  the  other  thing,  so  loathe 
the  animal  I  know  in  myself,  so  loathe  the 
idea  of  life  at  the  mercy  of  emotion." 

She  had  to  leave  the  roses  and  walk  on 
again  beside  him,  steeling  herself  to  bear 
whatever  might  be  coming.  And,  feeling 
that  unconscious  accusation  loomed,  she 
tried,  as  unconsciously,  to  mollify  and 
evade  it. 

"It  is  n't  always  the  animal,  exactly,  is 
it? — or  emotion  only?  It  is  romance  and 
blind  love  for  a  person  that  leads  people 
astray." 

"Is  n't  that  the  animal?"  Augustine  in- 
quired. "I  don't  think  the  animal  base, 
you  know,  or  shameful,  if  he  is  properly 
harnessed  and  kept  in  his  place.  It 's  only 
when  I  see  him  dominating  that  I  hate 
and  fear  him  so.  And,"  he  went  on  after 
a  little  pause  of  reflection,  "I  especially 
hate  him  in  that  form; — romance  and 

93 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

blind  love:  because  what  is  that,  really, 
but  the  animal  at  its  craftiest  and  most 
dangerous?  what  is  romance — I  mean  ro- 
mance of  the  kind  that  jeopardizes  'good- 
ness'— what  is  it  but  the  most  subtle  self- 
deception?  You  don't  love  the  person  in 
the  true  sense  of  love;  you  don't  want 
their  good;  you  don't  want  to  see  them 
put  in  the  right  relation  to  their  life 
as  a  whole: — what  you  want  is  sensa- 
tion through  them;  what  you  want  is 
yourself  in  them,  and  their  absorption  in 
you.  I  don't  think  that  wicked,  you  know 
— I  'm  not  a  monk  or  even  a  puritan — if 
it  's  the  mere  result  of  the  right  sort  of 
love,  a  happy  glamour  that  accompanies 
the  right  sort;  it  's  in  its  place,  then,  and 
can  endanger  nothing.  But  people  are  so 
extraordinarily  blind  about  love;  they 
don't  seem  able  to  distinguish  between  the 
real  and  the  false.  People  usually,  though 
they  don't  know  it,  mean  only  desire  when 
they  talk  of  love." 

There  was  another  pause  in  which  she 
wondered  that  he  did  not  hear  the  heavy 

94 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

throbbing  of  her  heart.  But  now  there 
was  no  retreat;  she  must  go  on;  she  must 
understand  her  son.  "Desire  must  enter 
in,"  she  said. 

"In  its  place,  yes ;  it  's  all  a  question  of 
that;"  Augustine  replied,  smiling  a  little 
at  her,  aware  of  the  dogmatic  flavour  of 
his  own  utterances,  the  humorous  aspect 
of  their  announcement,  to  her,  by  him; — 
"You  love  a  woman  enough  and  respect 
her  enough  to  wish  her  to  be  the  mother 
of  your  children — assuming,  of  course, 
that  you  consider  yourself  worthy  to  carry 
on  the  race;  and  to  think  of  a  woman  in 
such  a  way  is  to  feel  a  rightful  emotion 
and  a  rightful  desire ;  anything  else  makes 
emotion  the  end  instead  of  the  result  and 
is  corrupting,  I  'm  sure  of  it." 

"You  have  thought  it  all  out,  have  n't 
you";  Lady  Channice  steadied  her  voice 
to  say.  There  was  panic  rising  in  her, 
and  a  strange  anger  made  part  of  it. 

"I  Ve  had  to,  as  I  said,"  he  replied. 
"I  'm  anything  but  self-controlled  by  na- 
ture; already,"  and  Augustine  looked 

95 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

calmly  at  his  mother,  "I  'd  have  let  myself 
go  and  been  very  dissolute  unless  I  'd  had 
this  ideal  of  my  own  honour  to  help  me. 
I  'm  of  anything  but  a  saintly  disposition." 

"My  dear  Augustine!"  His  mother 
had  coloured  faintly.  Absurd  as  it  was, 
when  the  reality  of  her  own  life  was  there 
mocking  her,  the  bald  words  were  strange 
to  her. 

"Do  I  shock  you?"  he  asked.  "You 
know  I  always  feel  that  you  are  a  saint, 
who  can  hear  and  understand  every- 
thing." 

She  blushed  deeply,  painfully,  now. 
"No,  you  don't  shock  me;— I  am  only  a 
little  startled." 

"To  hear  that  I 'm  sensual  ?  The  whole 
human  race  is  far  too  sensual  in  my  opin- 
ion. They  think  a  great  deal  too  much 
about  their  sexual  appetites;— only  they 
don't  think  about  them  in  those  terms 
unfortunately;  they  think  about  them 
veiled  and  wreathed;  that  's  why  we  are 
sunk  in  such  a  bog  of  sentimentality  and 


sin." 


96 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

Lady  Channice  was  silent  for  a  long 
time.  They  had  left  the  garden,  and 
walked  along  the  little  path  near  the 
sunken  wall  at  the  foot  of  the  lawn,  and, 
skirting  the  wood  of  sycamores,  had  come 
back  to  the  broad  gravel  terrace.  A  tur- 
moil was  in  her  mind;  a  longing  to  know 
and  see;  a  terror  of  what  he  would  show 
her. 

"Do  you  call  it  sin,  that  blinded  love? 
Do  you  think  that  the  famous  lovers  of 
romance  were  sinners  ?"  she  asked  at  last ; 
"Tristan  and  Iseult?— Abelard  and  Hel- 
oise? — Paolo  and  Francesca?" 

"Of  course  they  were  sinners,"  said 
Augustine  cheerfully.  "What  did  they 
want?— a  present  joy:  purely  and  simply 
that:  they  sacrificed  everything  to  it — 
their  own  and  other  people's  futures: 
what  's  that  but  sin?  There  is  so  much 
mawkish  rubbish  talked  and  written  about 
such  persons.  They  were  pathetic,  of 
course,  most  sinners  are;  that  particular 
sin,  of  course,  may  be  so  associated  and 
bound  up  with  beautiful  things;— fidelity, 

1  97 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

and  real  love  may  make  such  a  part  of  it, 
that  people  get  confused  about  it." 

"Fidelity  and  real  love?"  Lady  Chan- 
nice  repeated:  "you  think  that  they  atone 
— if  they  make  part  of  an  illicit  passion?" 

"I  don't  think  that  they  atone ;  but  they 
may  redeem  it,  may  n't  they?  Why  do 
you  ask  me?"  Augustine  smiled; — "You 
know  far  more  about  these  things  than  I 
do." 

She  could  not  look  at  him.  His  words 
in  their  beautiful  unconsciousness  ap- 
palled her.  Yet  she  had  to  go  on,  to  profit 
by  her  own  trance-like  strength.  She  was 
walking  on  the  verge  of  a  precipice  but 
she  knew  that  with  steady  footsteps  she 
could  go  towards  her  appointed  place. 
She  must  see  just  where  Augustine  put 
her,  just  how  he  judged  her. 

"You  seem  to  know  more  than  I  do, 
Augustine,"  she  said :  "I  Ve  not  thought 
it  out  as  you  have.  And  it  seems  to  me 
that  any  great  emotion  is  more  of  an 
end  in  itself  than  you  would  grant.  But 
if  the  illicit  passion  thinks  itself  real  and 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

thinks  itself  enduring,  and  proves  neither, 
what  of  it  then?  What  do  you  think  of 
lovers  to  whom  that  happens  ?  It  so  often 
happens,  you  know." 

Augustine  had  his  cheerful  answer 
ready.  "Then  they  are  stupid  as  well  as 
sinful.  Of  course  it  is  sinful  to  be  stupid. 
We  Ve  learned  that  from  Plato  and  Hegel, 
have  n't  we?" 

The  parlour-maid  came  out  to  announce 
lunch.  Lady  Channice  was  spared  an  an- 
swer. She  went  to  her  room  feeling  shat- 
tered, as  if  great  stones  had  been  hurled 
upon  her. 

Yes,  she  thought,  gazing  at  herself  in 
the  mirror,  while  she  untied  her  scarf 
and  smoothed  her  hair,  yes,  she  had 
never  yet,  with  all  her  agonies  of 
penitence,  seen  so  clearly  what  she  had 
been :  a  sinner :  a  stupid  sinner.  Augus- 
tine's rigorous  young  theories  might  set 
too  inhuman  an  ideal,  but  that  aspect  of 
them  stood  out  clear :  he  had  put,  in  bald, 
ugly  words,  what,  in  essence,  her  love  for 
Paul  Quentin  had  been:  he  had  stripped 

99 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

all  the  veils  and  wreaths  away.  It  had 
been  self;  self,  blind  in  desire,  cruel  when 
blindness  left  it:  there  had  been  no  real 
love  and  no  fidelity  to  redeem  the  base- 
ness. A  stupid  sinner;  that,  her  son  had 
told  her,  was  what  she  had  been.  The 
horror  of  it  smote  back  upon  her  from  her 
widened,  mirrored  eyes,  and  she  sat  for 
a  moment  thinking  that  she  must  faint. 
Then  she  remembered  that  Augustine 
was  waiting  for  her  downstairs  and  that 
in  little  more  than  an  hour  her  husband 
would  be  with  her.  And  suddenly  the 
agony  lightened.  A  giddiness  of  relief 
came  over  her.  He  was  kind :  he  did  not 
judge  her:  he  knew  all,  yet  he  respected 
her.  Augustine  was  like  the  bleak, 
stony  moor;  she  must  shut  her  eyes  and 
stumble  on  towards  the  firelight.  And 
as  she  thought  of  that  nearing  brightness, 
of  her  husband's  eyes,  that  never  judged, 
never  grew  hard  or  fierce  or  remote  from 
human  tolerance,  a  strange  repulsion  from 
her  son  rose  in  her.  Cold,  fierce,  right- 
eous boy ;  cold,  heartless  theories  that  one 
100 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

throb  of  human  emotion  would  rightly 
shatter; — the  thought  was  almost  like  an 
echo  of  Paul  Quentin  speaking  in  her 
heart  to  comfort  her.  She  sprang  up: 
that  was  indeed  the  last  turn  of  horror. 
If  she  was  not  to  faint  she  must  not 
think.  Action  alone  could  dispel  the 
whirling  mist  where  she  did  not  know 
herself. 

She  went  down  to  the  dining-room. 
Augustine  stood  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow. "Do  come  and  see  this  delightful 
swallow,"  he  said:  "he  's  skimming  over 
and  over  the  lawn." 

She  felt  that  she  could  not  look  at  the 
swallow.  She  could  only  walk  to  her 
chair  and  sink  down  on  it.  Augustine  re- 
pelled her  with  his  cheerfulness,  his  triv- 
ial satisfactions.  How  could  he  not  know 
that  she  was  in  torment  and  that  he  had 
plunged  her  there.  This  involuntary  in- 
justice to  him  was,  she  saw  again,  verit- 
ably crazed. 

She  poured  herself  out  water  and  said 
in  a  voice  that  surprised  herself: — "Very 
101 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

delightful,  I  am  sure;  but  come  and  have 
your  lunch.  I  am  hungry." 

"And  how  pale  you  are,"  said  Augus- 
tine, going  to  his  place.  "We  stayed  out 
too  long.  You  got  chilled."  He  looked  at 
her  with  the  solicitude  that  was  like  a  bro- 
ther's— or  a  doctor's.  That  jarred  upon 
her  racked  nerves,  too. 

"Yes;  I  am  cold:"  she  said. 

She  took  food  upon  her  plate  and  pre- 
tended to  eat.  Augustine,  she  guessed, 
must  already  feel  the  change  in  her.  He 
must  see  that  she  only  pretended.  But 
he  said  nothing  more.  His  tact  was  a 
further  turn  to  the  knot  of  her  sudden 
misery. 

AUGUSTINE  was  with  her  in  the  draw- 
ing-room when  she  heard  the  wheels  of 
the  station-fly  grinding  on  the  gravel 
drive;  they  sounded  very  faintly  in  the 
drawing-room,  but,  from  years  of  listen- 
ing, her  hearing  had  grown  very  acute. 

She  could  never  meet  her  husband  with- 
out an  emotion  that  betrayed  itself  in 
102 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

pallor  and  trembling  and  to-day  the  emo- 
tion was  so  marked  that  Augustine's  pres- 
ence was  at  once  a  safeguard  and  an 
anxiety;  before  Augustine  she  could  be 
sure  of  not  breaking  down,  not  bursting 
into  tears  of  mingled  gladness  and  wretch- 
edness, but  though  he  would  keep  her 
from  betraying  too  much  to  Sir  Hugh, 
would  she  not  betray  too  much  to  him? 
He  was  reading  a  review  and  laid  it  down 
as  the  door  opened:  she  could  only  hope 
that  he  noticed  nothing. 

Sir  Hugh  came  in  quickly.  At  fifty- 
four  he  was  still  a  very  handsome  man  of 
a  chivalrous  and  soldierly  bearing.  He 
had  long  limbs,  broad  shoulders  and  a 
not  yet  expanded  waist.  His  nose  and 
chin  were  clearly  and  strongly  cut,  his 
eyes  brightly  blue;  his  moustache  ran  to 
decisive  little  points  twisted  up  from  the 
lip  and  was  as  decorative  as  an  epaulette 
upon  a  martial  shoulder.  Pleasantness 
radiated  from  him,  and  though,  with 
years,  this  pleasantness  was  significant 
rather  of  his  general  attitude  than  of  his 
103 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

individual  interest,  though  his  movements 
had  become  a  little  indolent  and  his  fea- 
tures a  little  heavy,  these  changes,  to 
affectionate  eyes,  were  merely  towards 
a  more  pronounced  geniality  and  content- 
edness. 

Today,  however,  geniality  and  content- 
ment were  less  apparent.  He  looked 
slightly  nipped  and  hardened,  and,  seem- 
ing pleased  to  find  a  fire,  he  stood  before 
it,  after  he  had  shaken  hands  with  his 
wife  and  with  Augustine,  and  said  that  it 
had  been  awfully  cold  in  the  train. 

"We  will  have  tea  at  half  past  four  in- 
stead of  five  today,  then,"  said  Amabel. 

But  no,  he  replied,  he  could  n't  stop  for 
tea:  he  must  catch  the  four-four  back  to 
town:  he  had  a  dinner  and  should  only 
just  make  it. 

His  eye  wandered  a  little  vaguely  about 
the  room,  but  he  brought  it  back  to  Ama- 
bel to  say  with  a  smile  that  the  fire  made 
up  for  the  loss  of  tea.  There  was  then  a 
little  silence  during  which  it  might  have 
been  inferred  that  Sir  Hugh  expected  Au- 
104 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

gustine  to  leave  the  room.  Amabel,  too, 
expected  it;  but  Augustine  had  taken  up 
his  review  and  was  reading  again.  She 
felt  her  fear  of  him,  her  anger  against 
him,  grow. 

Very  pleasantly,  Sir  Hugh  at  last  sug- 
gested that  he  had  a  little  business  to  talk 
over.  "I  think  I  '11  ask  Augustine  to  let 
us  have  a  half  hour's  talk." 

"Oh,  I  '11  not  interfere  with  business," 
said  Augustine,  not  lifting  his  eyes. 

The  silence,  now,  was  more  than  un- 
comfortable ;  to  Amabel  it  was  suffocating. 
She  could  guess  too  well  that  some  latent 
enmity  was  expressed  in  Augustine's  as- 
sumed unconsciousness.  That  Sir  Hugh 
was  surprised,  displeased,  was  evident; 
but,  when  he  spoke  again,  after  a  little 
pause,  it  was  still  pleasantly:— "Not  with 
business,  but  with  talk  you  will  interfere. 
I  'm  afraid  I  must  ask  you. — I  don't  often 
have  a  chance  to  talk  with  your  mother. — 
I  '11  see  you  later,  eh?" 

Augustine  made  no  reply.  He  rose  and 
walked  out  of  the  room. 

105 


Sir  Hugh  still  stood  before  the  fire,  lift- 
ing first  the  sole  of  one  boot  and  then  the 
other  to  the  blaze.  "Has  n't  always  quite 
nice  manners,  has  he,  the  boy";  he  ob- 
served. "I  did  n't  want  to  have  to  send 
him  out,  you  know." 

"He  did  n't  realize  that  you  wanted  to 
talk  to  me  alone."  Amabel  felt  herself 
offering  the  excuse  from  a  heart  turned 
to  stone. 

"Did  n't  he,  do  you  think?  Perhaps 
not.  We  always  do  talk  alone,  you 
know.  He  's  just  a  trifle  tactless,  shows 
a  bit  of  temper  sometimes.  I  Ve  noticed 
it.  I  hope  he  does  n't  bother  you  with  it." 

"No.  I  never  saw  him  like  that,  be- 
fore," said  Amabel,  looking  down  as  she 
sat  in  her  chair. 

"Well,  that  's  all  that  matters,"  said 
Sir  Hugh,  as  if  satisfied. 

His  boots  were  quite  hot  now  and  he 
went  to  the  writing-desk  drawing  a  case 
of  papers  from  his  breast-pocket. 

"Here  are  some  of  your  securities, 
Amabel,"  he  said:  "I  want  a  few  more 
1 06 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

signatures.  Things  have  n't  been  going 
very  well  with  me  lately.  I  'd  be  awfully 
obliged  if  you  'd  help  me  out." 

"Oh — gladly — "  she  murmured.  She 
rose  and  came  to  the  desk.  She  hardly 
saw  the  papers  through  a  blur  of  miser- 
able tears  while  she  wrote  her  name  here 
and  there.  She  was  shut  out  in  the  mist 
and  dark;  he  was  n't  thinking  of  her  at 
all;  he  was  chill,  preoccupied;  something 
was  displeasing  him;  decisively,  almost 
sharply,  he  told  her  where  to  write.  "You 
must  n't  be  worried,  you  know,"  he  ob- 
served as  he  pointed  out  the  last  place; 
"I  'm  arranging  here,  you  see,  to  pass 
Charlock  House  over  to  you  for  good. 
That  is  a  little  return  for  all  you  've  done. 
It  's  not  a  valueless  property.  And  then 
Bertram  tied  up  a  good  sum  for  the  child, 
you  know." 

His  speaking  of  "the  child,"  made  her 
heart  stop  beating,  it  brought  the  past  so 
near.— And  was  Charlock  House  to  be 
her  very  own?  "Oh,"  she  murmured,  "that 
is  too  good  of  you. — You  must  n't  do 
107 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

that. — Apart  from  Augustine's  share,  all 
that  I  have  is  yours;  I  want  no  return." 

"Ah,  but  I  want  you  to  have  it";  said 
Sir  Hugh;  "it  will  ease  my  conscience  a 
little.  And  you  really  do  care  for  the  grim 
old  place,  don't  you." 

"I  love  it." 

"Well,  sign  here,  and  here,  and  it  's 
yours.  There.  Now  you  are  mistress  in 
your  own  home.  You  don't  know  how 
good  you  Ve  been  to  me,  Amabel." 

The  voice  was  the  old,  kind  voice, 
touched  even,  it  seemed,  with  an  unwonted 
feeling,  and,  suddenly,  the  tears  ran  down 
her  cheeks  as,  looking  at  the  papers  that 
gave  her  her  home,  she  said,  faltering:  — 
"You  are  not  displeased  with  me? — Noth- 
ing is  the  matter?" 

He  looked  at  her,  startled,  a  little  con- 
fused. "Why  my  dear  girl, — displeased 
with  you? — How  could  I  be? — No.  It  's 
only  these  confounded  affairs  of  mine  that 
are  in  a  bit  of  a  mess  just  now." 

"And  can't  I  be  of  even  more  help — 
without  any  returns?     I  can  be  so  eco- 
108 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

nomical  for  myself,  here.    I  need  almost 
nothing  in  my  quiet  life.'* 

Sir  Hugh  flushed.  "Oh,  you  've  not 
much  more  to  give,  my  dear.  I  Ve  taken 
you  at  your  word." 

"Take  me  completely  at  my  word. 
Take  everything." 

"You  dear  little  saint,"  he  said.  He 
patted  her  shoulder.  The  door  was  wide ; 
the  fire  shone  upon  her.  She  felt  herself 
falling  on  her  knees  before  it,  with  happy 
tears.  He,  who  knew  all,  could  say  that 
to  her,  with  sincerity.  The  day  of  lower- 
ing fear  and  bewilderment  opened  to  sud- 
den joy.  His  hand  was  on  her  shoulder; 
she  lifted  it  and  kissed  it. 

"Oh!  Don't P-said  Sir  Hugh.  He 
drew  his  hand  sharply  away.  There  was 
confusion,  irritation,  in  his  little  laugh. 

Amabel's  tears  stood  on  scarlet  cheeks. 
Did  he  not  understand? — Did  he  think? 
— And  was  he  right  in  thinking? — Shame 
flooded  her.  What  girlish  impulse  had 
mingled  incredibly  with  her  gratitude, 
her  devotion? 

109 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

Sir  Hugh  had  turned  away,  and  as  she 
sat  there,  amazed  with  her  sudden  suspi- 
cion, the  door  opened  and  Augustine  came 
in  saying: — "Here  is  Lady  Ellis  ton, 
Mother." 


no 


V 


'ADY  ELLISTON  helped  her. 
How  that,  too,  brought  back 
^  the  past  to  Amabel  as  she  rose 
and  moved  forward,  before  her  husband 
and  her  son,  to  greet  the  friend  of  twenty 
years  ago. 

Lady  Elliston,  at  difficult  moments,  had 
always  helped  her,  and  this  was  one  of 
the  most  difficult  that  she  had  ever  known. 
Amabel  forgot  her  tears,  forgot  her 
shame,  in  her  intense  desire  that  Augus- 
tine should  guess  nothing. 

"My  very  dear  Amabel,"  said  Lady  El- 
liston. She  swept  forward  and  took  both 
Lady  Channice's  hands,  holding  them 
firmly,  looking  at  her  intently,  intently 
smiling,  as  if,  with  her  own  mastery  of 
in 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

the  situation,  to  give  her  old  friend 
strength.  "My  dear,  dear  Amabel,"  she 
repeated:  "How  good  it  is  to  see  you 
again. — And  how  lovely  you  are." 

She  was  silken,  she  was  scarfed,  she 
was  soft  and  steady ;  as  in  the  past,  sweet- 
ness and  strength  breathed  from  her.  She 
was  competent  to  deal  with  most  calami- 
tous situations  and  to  make  them  bearable, 
to  make  them  even  graceful.  She  could 
do  what  she  would  with  situations :  Ama- 
bel felt  that  of  her  now  as  she  had  felt  it 
years  ago. 

Her  eyes  continued  to  gaze  for  a  long 
moment  into  Amabel's  eyes  before,  as 
softly  and  as  steadily,  they  passed  to  Sir 
Hugh  who  was  again  standing  before  the 
fire  behind  his  wife.  "How  do  you  do," 
she  then  said  with  a  little  nod. 

"How  d  'ye  do,"  Sir  Hugh  replied. 
His  voice  was  neither  soft  nor  steady;  the 
sharpness,  the  irritation  was  in  it.  "I 
did  n't  know  you  were  down  here,"  he 
said. 

Over  Amabel's  shoulder,  while  she 
112 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

still  held  Amabel's  hands,  Lady  Elliston 
looked  at  him,  all  sweetness.  "Yes :  I  ar- 
rived this  morning.  I  am  staying  with 
the  Greys." 

"The  Greys?  How  in  the  dickens  did 
you  run  across  them?"  Sir  Hugh  asked 
with  a  slight  laugh. 

"I  met  them  at  Jack's  cousin's — the  nice 
old  bishop,  you  know.  They  are  tiresome 
people ;  but  kind.  And  there  is  a  Grey  fils 
— the  oldest — whom  Peggy  took  rather  a 
fancy  to  last  winter, — they  were  hunting 
together  in  Yorkshire; — and  I  wanted  to 
look  at  him — and  at  the  place! — "—Lady 
Elliston's  smile  was  all  candour.  "They 
are  very  solid;  it  's  not  a  bad  place.  If 
the  young  people  are  really  serious  Jack 
and  I  might  consider  it;  with  three  girls 
still  to  marry,  one  must  be  very  wise  and 
reasonable.  But,  of  course,  I  came  really 
to  see  you,  Amabel." 

She  had  released  Amabel's  hands  at  last 
with  a  final  soft  pressure,  and,  as  Amabel 
took  her  accustomed  chair  near  the  table, 
she  sat  down  near  her  and  loosened  her 

8  113 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

cloak  and  unwound  her  scarf,  and  threw 
back  her  laces. 

"And  I  've  been  making  friends  with 
your  boy,"  she  went  on,  looking  up  at  Au- 
gustine:— "he  's  been  walking  me  about 
the  garden,  saying  that  you  must  n't  be 
disturbed.  Why  have  n't  I  been  able  to 
make  friends  before?  Why  has  n't  he 
been  to  see  me  in  London  ?" 

"I  'II  bring  him  someday,"  said  Sir 
Hugh.  "He  is  only  just  grown  up,  you 


see." 


"I  see:  do  bring  him  soon.  He  is 
charming,"  said  Lady  Elliston,  smiling  at 
Augustine. 

Amabel  remembered  her  pretty,  assured 
manner  of  saying  any  pleasantness — 
or  unpleasantness  for  that  matter — 
that  she  chose  to  say;  but  it  struck 
her,  from  this  remark,  that  the  gift  had 
grown  a  little  mechanical.  Augustine  re- 
ceived it  without  embarrassment.  Au- 
gustine already  seemed  to  know  that 
this  smiling  guest  was  in  the  habit  of 
saying  that  young  men  were  charming 
114 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

before  their  faces  when  she  wanted  to  be 
pleasant  to  them.  Amabel  seemed  to  see 
her  son  from  across  the  wide  chasm  that 
had  opened  between  them ;  but,  looking  at 
his  figure,  suddenly  grown  strange,  she 
felt  that  Augustine's  manners  were  'nice/ 
The  fact  of  their  niceness,  of  his  compe- 
tence—really it  matched  Lady  Elliston's 
— made  him  the  more  mature;  and  this 
moment  of  motherly  appreciation  led  her 
back  to  the  stony  wilderness  where  her 
son  judged  her,  with  a  man's,  not  a  boy's 
judgment.  There  was  no  uncertainty  in 
Augustine;  his  theories  might  be  young; 
his  character  was  formed;  his  judgments 
would  not  change.  She  forced  herself  not 
to  think;  but  to  look  and  listen. 

Lady  Elliston  continued  to  talk:  in- 
deed it  was  she  and  Augustine  who  did 
most  of  the  talking.  Sir  Hugh  only  in- 
terjected a  remark  now  and  then  from 
his  place  before  the  fire.  Amabel  was  able 
to  feel  a  further  change  in  him;  he  was 
displeased  today,  and  displeased  in  par- 
ticular, now,  with  Lady  Elliston.  She 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

thought  that  she  could  understand  the 
vexation  for  him  of  this  irruption  of 
his  real  life  into  the  sad  little  corner  of 
kindness  and  duty  that  Charlock  House 
and  its  occupants  must  represent  to  him. 
He  had  seldom  spoken  to  her  about 
Lady  Elliston;  he  had  seldom  spoken 
to  her  about  any  of  the  life  that  she 
had  abandoned  in  abandoning  him: 
but  she  knew  that  Lord  and  Lady 
Elliston  were  near  friends  still,  and 
with  this  knowledge  she  could  imag- 
ine how  on  edge  her  husband  must  be 
when  to  the  near  friend  of  the  real  life 
he  could  allow  an  even  sharper  note  to 
alter  all  his  voice.  Amabel  heard  it 
sadly,  with  a  sense  of  confused  values: 
nothing  today  was  as  she  had  expected  it 
to  be :  and  if  she  heard  she  was  sure  that 
Lady  Elliston  must  hear  it  too,  and  per- 
haps the  symptom  of  Lady  Elliston's  dis- 
pleasure was  that  she  talked  rather  point- 
edly to  Augustine  and  talked  hardly  at 
all  to  Sir  Hugh:  her  eyes,  in  speaking, 
passed  sometimes  over  his  figure,  rested 
116 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

sometimes,  with  a  bland  courtesy,  on  his 
face  when  he  spoke;  but  Augustine  was 
their  object:  on  him  they  dwelt  and 
smiled. 

The  years  had  wrought  few  changes  in 
Lady  Elliston.  Silken,  soft,  smiling,  these 
were,  still,  as  in  the  past,  the  words  that 
described  her.  She  had  triumphantly  kept 
her  lovely  figure :  the  bright  brown  hair, 
too,  had  been  kept,  but  at  some  little  sacri- 
fice of  sincerity:  Lady  Elliston  must  be 
nearly  fifty  and  her  shining  locks  showed 
no  sign  of  fading.  Perhaps,  in  the  per- 
fection of  her  appearance  and  manner, 
there  was  a  hint  of  some  sacrifice  every- 
where. How  much  she  has  kept,  was  the 
first  thought ;  but  the  second  came : — How 
much  she  has  given  up.  Yes;  there  was 
the  only  real  change:  Amabel,  gazing  at 
her,  somewhat  as  a  nun  gazes  from  be- 
hind convent  gratings  at  some  bright 
denizen  of  the  outer  world,  felt  it  more 
and  more.  She  was  sweet,  but  was  she 
not  too  skilful?  She  was  strong,  but  was 
not  her  strength  unscrupulous?  As  she 
117 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

listened  to  her,  Amabel  remembered  old 
wonders,  old  glimpses  of  motives  that 
stole  forth  reconnoitring  and  then  re- 
treated at  the  hint  of  rebuff,  graceful  and 
unconfused. 

There  were  motives  now,  behind  that 
smile,  that  softness;  motives  behind  the 
flattery  of  Augustine,  the  blandness  tow- 
ards Sir  Hugh,  the  visit  to  herself.  Some 
of  the  motives  were,  perhaps,  all  kind- 
ness :  Lady  Elliston  had  always  been  kind ; 
she  had  always  been  a  binder  of  wounds, 
a  dispenser  of  punctual  sunlight ;  she  was 
one  of  the  world's  powerfully  benignant 
great  ladies;  committees  clustered  round 
her;  her  words  of  assured  wisdom  sus- 
tained and  guided  ecclesiastical  and  polit- 
ical organisations ;  one  must  be  benignant, 
in  an  altruistic  modern  world,  if  one 
wanted  to  rule.  It  was  not  a  cynical  nun 
who  gazed;  Lady  Elliston  was  kind  and 
Lady  Elliston  loved  power;  simply,  with- 
out a  sense  of  blame,  Amabel  drew  her 
conclusions. 

There  were  now  lapses  in  Lady  Ellis- 
118 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

ton's  fluency.  Her  eyes  rested  contempla- 
tively on  Amabel;  it  was  evident  that  she 
wanted  to  see  Amabel  alone.  This  motive 
was  so  natural  a  one  that,  although  Sir 
Hugh  seemed  determined,  at  the  risk  of 
losing  his  train,  to  stay  till  the  last  minute, 
he,  too,  felt,  at  last,  its  pressure. 

His  wife  saw  him  go  with  a  sense  of 
closing  mists.  Augustine,  now  more  con- 
siderate, followed  him.  She  was  left  fac- 
ing her  guest. 

Only  Lady  Elliston  could  have  kept  the 
moment  from  being  openly  painful  and 
even  Lady  Elliston  could  not  pretend  to 
find  it  an  easy  one ;  but  she  did  not  err  on 
the  side  of  too  much  tact.  It  was  so 
sweetly,  so  gravely  that  her  eyes  rested 
for  a  long  moment  of  silence  on  her  old 
friend,  so  quietly  that  they  turned  away 
from  her  rising  flush,  that  Amabel  felt 
old  gratitudes  mingling  with  old  dis- 
trusts. 

"What  a  sad  room  this  is,"  said  Lady 
Elliston,  looking  about  it.     "Is  it  just  as 
you  found  it,  Amabel?" 
119 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"Yes,  almost.  I  have  taken  away  some 
things." 

"I  wish  you  would  take  them  all  away 
and  put  in  new  ones.  It  might  be  made 
into  a  very  nice  room;  the  panelling  is 
good.  What  it  needs  is  Jacobean  furni- 
ture, fine  old  hangings,  and  some  bits  of 
glass  and  porcelain  here  and  there." 

"I  suppose  so."  Amabel's  eyes  followed 
Lady  Elliston's.  "I  never  thought  of 
changing  anything." 

Lady  Elliston's  eyes  turned  on  hers 
again.  "No:  I  suppose  not,"  she  said. 

She  seemed  to  find  further  meanings  in 
the  speech  and  took  it  up  again  with:  "I 
suppose  not.  It  's  strange  that  we  should 
never  have  met  in  all  these  years,  is  n't  it." 

"Is  it  strange?" 

"I  've  often  felt  it  so:  if  you  have  n't, 
that  is  just  part  of  your  acceptance.  You 
have  accepted  everything.  It  has  often 
made  me  indignant  to  think  of  it." 

Amabel  sat  in  her  high-backed  chair 
near  the  table.  Her  hands  were  tightly 
clasped  together  in  her  lap  and  her  face, 
1 20 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

with  the  light  from  the  windows  falling 
upon  it,  was  very  pale.  But  she  knew  that 
she  was  calm;  that  she  could  meet  Lady 
Elliston's  kindness  with  an  answering 
kindness;  that  she  was  ready,  even,  to 
hear  Lady  Elliston's  questions.  This, 
however,  was  not  a  question,  and  she  hesi- 
tated for  a  moment  before  saying:  "I 
don't  understand  you." 

"How  well  I  remember  that  voice," 
Lady  Elliston  smiled  a  little  sadly:  "It  's 
the  girl's  voice  of  twenty  years  ago — 
holding  me  away.  Can't  we  be  frank  to- 
gether, now,  Amabel,  when  we  are  both 
middle-aged  women? — at  least  I  am  mid- 
dle-aged.— How  it  has  kept  you  young, 
this  strange  life  you  've  led." 

"But,  really,  I  do  not  understand," 
Amabel  murmured,  confused;  "I  did  n't 
understand  you  then,  sometimes." 

"Then  I  may  be  frank?" 

"Yes;  be  frank,  of  course." 

"It  is  only  that  indignation  that  I  want 
to  express,"  said  Lady  Elliston,  tentative 
no  longer  and  firmly  advancing.  "Why 
121 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

are  you  here,  in  this  dismal  room,  this  dis- 
mal house  ?  Why  have  you  let  yourself  be 
cloistered  like  this?  Why  have  n't  you 
come  out  and  claimed  things?" 

Amabel's  grey  eyes,  even  in  their  seren- 
ity always  a  little  wild,  widened  with  as- 
tonishment. "Claimed?"  she  repeated. 
"What  do  you  mean?  What  could  I  have 
claimed?  I  have  been  given  everything." 

"My  dear  Amabel,  you  speak  as  if  you 
had  deserved  this  imprisonment." 

There  was  another  and  a  longer  silence 
in  which  Amabel  seemed  slowly  to  find 
meanings  incredible  to  her  before.  And 
her  reception  of  them  was  expressed  in 
the  changed,  the  hardened  voice  with 
which  she  said:  "You  know  everything. 
I  Ve  always  been  sure  you  knew.  How 
can  you  say  such  things  to  me?" 

"Do  not  be  angry  with  me,  dear  Ama- 
bel. I  do  not  mean  to  offend." 

"You  spoke  as  though  you  were  sorry 
for  me,  as  though  I  had  been  injured. — 
It  touches  him." 

"But,"  Lady  Elliston  had  flushed  very 
122 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

slightly,  "it  does  touch  him.  I  blame 
Hugh  for  this.  He  ought  not  to  have  al- 
lowed it.  He  ought  not  to  have  accepted 
such  misplaced  penitence.  You  were  a 
mere  child,  and  Hugh  neglected  you 
shamefully." 

"I  was  not  a  mere  child,"  said  Amabel. 
"I  was  a  sinful  woman." 

Lady  Elliston  sat  still,  as  if  arrested  and 
spell-bound  by  the  unexpected  words.  She 
seemed  to  find  no  answer.  And  as  the 
silence  grew  long,  Amabel  went  on,  slow- 
ly, with  difficulty,  yet  determinedly  oppos- 
ing and  exposing  the  folly  of  the  implied 
accusation.  "You  don't  seem  to  remem- 
ber the  facts.  I  betrayed  my  husband. 
He  might  have  cast  me  off.  He  might 
have  disgraced  me  and  my  child.  And  he 
lifted  me  up;  he  sheltered  me;  he  gave 
his  name  to  the  child.  He  has  given  me 
everything  I  have.  You  see — you  must 
not  speak  of  him  like  that  to  me." 

Lady  Elliston  had  gathered  herself  to- 
gether though  still,  it  was  evident,  bewil- 
dered. "I  don't  mean  to  blame  Hugh  so 
123 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

much.  It  was  your  fault,  too,  I  suppose. 
You  asked  for  the  cloister,  I  know." 

"No;  I  did  n't  ask  for  it.  I  asked  to  be 
allowed  to  go  away  and  hide  myself.  The 
cloister,  too,  was  a  gift, — like  my  name, 
my  undishonoured  child/' 

"Dear,  dear  Amabel,"  said  Lady  Ellis- 
ton,  gazing  at  her,  "how  beautiful  of  you 
to  be  able  to  feel  like  that." 

"It  is  n't  I  who  am  beautiful" ;  Amabel's 
lips  trembled  a  little  now  and  her  eyes 
filled  suddenly  with  tears.  Tears  and 
trembling  seemed  to  bring  hardness  rather 
than  softening  to  her  face ;  they  were  like 
a  chill  breeze,  like  an  icy  veil,  and  the 
face,  with  its  sorrow,  was  like  a  winter's 
landscape. 

"He  is  so  beautiful  that  he  would  never 
let  anyone  know  or  understand  what  I 
owe  him :  he  would  never  know  it  himself : 
there  is  something  simple  and  innocent 
about  such  men :  they  do  beautiful  things 
unconsciously.  You  know  him  well:  you 
are  far  nearer  him  than  I  am:  but  you 
can't  know  what  the  beauty  is,  for  you 
124 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

have  never  been  helpless  and  disgraced 
and  desperate  nor  needed  anyone  to  lift 
you  up.  No  one  can  know  as  I  do  the  an- 
gel in  my  husband." 

Lady  Elliston  sat  silent.  She  received 
Amabel's  statements  steadily  yet  with  a 
little  wincing,  as  though  they  had  been 
bullets  whistling  past  her  head;  they 
would  not  pierce,  if  one  did  not  move;  yet 
an  involuntary  compression  of  the  lips  and 
flutter  of  the  eyelids  revealed  a  rather 
rigid  self-mastery.  Only  after  the  silence 
had  grown  long  did  she  slightly  stir,  move 
her  hand,  turn  her  head  with  a  deep,  care- 
ful breath,  and  then  say,  almost  timidly; 
"Then,  he  has  lifted  you  up,  Amabel? — 
You  are  happy,  really  happy,  in  your 
strange  life?" 

Amabel  looked  down.  The  force  of  her 
vindicating  ardour  had  passed  from  her. 
With  the  question  the  hunted,  haunted 
present  flooded  in.  Happy?  Yesterday 
she  might  have  answered  "yes>"  so  far 
away  had  the  past  seemed,  so  forgotten 
the  fear  in  which  she  had  learned  to 

125 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

breathe.  Today  the  past  was  with  her 
and  the  fear  pressed  heavily  upon  her 
heart.  She  answered  in  a  sombre  voice: 
"With  my  past  what  woman  could  be 
happy.  It  blights  everything." 

"Oh— but  Amabel—"  Lady  Elliston 
breathed  forth.  She  leaned  forward,  then 
moved  back,  withdrawing  the  hand  im- 
pulsively put  out.  — "Why?— Why?— " 
she  gently  urged.  "It  is  all  over:  all 
passed:  all  forgotten.  Don't— ah  don't 
let  it  blight  anything." 

"Oh  no,"  said  Amabel,  shaking  her 
head.  "It  is  n't  over ;  it  is  n't  forgotten ; 
it  never  will  be.  Hugh  cannot  forget — 
though  he  has  forgiven.  And  someday,  I 
feel  it,  Augustine  will  know.  Then  I 
shall  drink  the  cup  of  shame  to  the  last 
drop." 

"Oh!—"  said  Lady  Elliston,  as  if  with 
impatience.  She  checked  herself.  "What 
can  I  say? — if  you  will  think  of  yourself 
in  this  preposterous  way. — As  for  Augus- 
tine, he  does  not  know  and  how  should  he 
ever  know?  How  could  he,  when  no  one 
126 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

in  the  world  knows  but  you  and  I  and 
Hugh." 

She  paused  at  that,  looking  at  Amabel's 
downcast  face.  "You  notice  what  I  say, 
Amabel?" 

"Yes;  that  is  n't  it.    He  will  guess." 

"You  are  morbid,  my  poor  child. — But 
do  you  notice  nothing  when  I  say  that 
only  we  three  know?" 

Amabel  looked  up.  Lady  Elliston  met 
her  eyes.  "I  came  today  to  tell  you,  Ama- 
bel. I  felt  sure  you  did  not  know.  There 
is  no  reason  at  all,  now,  why  you  should 
dread  coming  out  into  the  world — with 
Augustine.  You  need  fear  no  meetings. 
You  did  not  know  that  he  was  dead." 

"He?" 

"Yes.    He.    Paul  Quentin." 

Amabel,  gazing  at  her,  said  nothing. 

"He  died  in  Italy,  last  week.  He  was 
married,  you  know,  quite  happily;  an  or- 
dinary sort  of  person;  she  had  money;  he 
rather  let  his  work  go.  But  they  were 
happy;  a  large  family;  a  villa  on  a  hill 
somewhere;  pictures,  bric-a-brac  and  bo- 
127 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

hemian  intellectualism.    You  knew  of  his 
marriage  ?" 

"Yes;  I  knew." 

The  tears  had  risen  to  Lady  Elliston's 
eyes  before  that  stricken,  ashen  face;  she 
looked  away,  murmuring:  "I  wanted  to 
tell  you,  when  we  were  alone.  It  might 
have  come  as  such  an  ugly  shock,  if  you 
were  unprepared.  But,  now,  there  is  no 
danger  anymore.  And  you  will  come  out, 
Amabel?" 

"No; — never. — It  was  never  that." 

"But  what  was  it  then?" 

Amabel  had  risen  and  was  looking 
around  her  blindly. 

"It  was.— I  have  no  place  but  here.— 
Forgive  me — I  must  go.  I  can't  talk 
any  more." 

"Yes;  go;  do  go  and  lie  down."  Lady 
Elliston,  rising  too,  put  an  arm  around 
her  shoulders  and  took  her  hand.  "I  '11 
come  again  and  see  you.  I  am  going  up 
to  town  for  a  night  or  so  on  Tuesday, 
but  I  bring  Peggy  down  here  for  the  next 
week-end.  I  '11  see  you  then.— Ah,  here 
128 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

is  Augustine,  and  tea.  He  will  give  me 
my  tea  and  you  must  sleep  off  your  head- 
ache. Your  poor  mother  has  a  very  bad 
head-ache,  Augustine.  I  have  tried  her. 
Goodbye,  dear,  go  and  rest." 


129 


VI 


hour  ago  Augustine  had 
found  his  mother  in  tears ;  now 
he  found  her  beyond  them.  He 
gave  her  his  arm  and,  outside  in  the  hall, 
prepared  to  mount  the  stairs  with  her ;  but, 
shaking  her  head,  trying,  with  miserable 
unsuccess,  to  smile,  she  pointed  him  back 
to  the  drawing-room  and  to  his  duties  of 
host. 

"Ah,  she  is  very  tired.  She  does  not 
look  well,"  said  Lady  Elliston.  "I  am 
glad  to  see  that  you  take  good  care  of 
her." 

"She  is  usually  very  well,"  said  Augus- 
tine, standing  over  the  tea-tray  that  had 
been  put  on  the  table  between  him  and 
Lady  Elliston.  "  Let  's  see :  what  do  you 
have?  Sugar?  milk?" 
130 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"No  sugar;  milk,  please.  It  's  such  a 
great  pleasure  to  me  to  meet  your  mother 
again." 

Augustine  made  no  reply  to  this,  hand- 
ing her  her  cup  and  the  plate  of  bread  and 
butter. 

"She  was  one  of  the  loveliest  girls  I 
have  ever  seen,"  Lady  Elliston  went  on, 
helping  herself.  "She  looked  like  a  Ma- 
donna—and a  cowslip. — And  she  looks 
like  that  more  than  ever."  She  had  paused 
for  a  moment  as  an  uncomfortable  recol- 
lection came  to  her.  It  was  Paul  Quentin 
who  had  said  that :  at  her  house. 

"Yes,"  Augustine  assented,  pleased, 
"she  does  look  like  a  cowslip;  she  is  so 
pale  and  golden  and  tranquil.  It  's  funny 
you  should  say  so,"  he  went  on,  "for  I  Ve 
often  thought  it ;  but  with  me  it 's  an  asso- 
ciation of  ideas,  too.  Those  meadows 
over  there,  beyond  our  lawn,  are  full 
of  cowslips  in  Spring  and  ever  since  I  can 
remember  we  have  picked  them  there  to- 
gether." 

"How  sweet";  Lady  Elliston  was  still 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

a  little  confused,  by  her  blunder,  and  by 
his  words.  "What  a  happy  life  you  and 
your  mother  must  have  had,  cloistered 
here.  I  Ve  been  telling  your  mother  that 
it  's  like  a  cloister.  I  've  been  scolding 
her  a  little  for  shutting  herself  up  in  it. 
And  now  that  I  have  this  chance  of  talk- 
ing to  you  I  do  very  much  want  to  say 
that  I  hope  you  will  bring  her  out  a  little 
more." 

"Bring  her  out?  Where?"  Augustine 
inquired. 

"Into  the  world — the  world  she  is  so 
fitted  to  adorn.  It 's  ridiculous  this — this 
fad  of  hers,"  said  Lady  Elliston. 

"Is  it  a  fad?"  Augustine  asked,  but 
with  at  once  a  lightness  and  distance  of 
manner. 

"Of  course.  And  it  is  bad  for  anyone 
to  be  immured." 

"I  don't  think  it  has  been  bad  for  her. 
Perhaps  this  is  more  the  world  than  you 
think." 

"I  only  mean  bad  in  the  sense  of  sad." 

"Isn't  the  world  sad?" 
132 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"What  a  strange  young  man  you  are. 
Do  you  really  mean  to  say  that  you  like 
to  see  your  mother— your  beautiful,  lovely 
mother — imprisoned  in  this  gloomy  place 
and  meeting  nobody  from  one  year's  end 
to  the  other?" 

"I  have  said  nothing  at  all  about  my 
likes,"  said  Augustine,  smiling. 

Lady  Elliston  gazed  at  him.  He  star- 
tled her  almost  as  much  as  his  mother  had 
done.  What  a  strange  young  man,  in- 
deed; what  strange  echoes  of  his  father 
and  mother  in  him.  But  she  had  to  grope 
for  the  resemblances  to  Paul  Quentin; 
they  were  there;  she  felt  them;  but  they 
were  difficult  to  see;  while  it  was  easy  to 
see  the  resemblances  to  Amabel.  His 
father  was  like  a  force,  a  fierceness  in  him, 
controlled  and  guided  by  an  influence  that 
was  his  mother.  And  where  had  he  found, 
at  nineteen,  that  assurance,  an  assurance 
without  his  father's  vanity  or  his  mother's 
selflessness?  Paul  Quentin  had  been  as- 
sured because  he  was  so  absolutely  sure 
of  his  own  value ;  Amabel  was  assured  be- 

133 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

cause,  in  her  own  eyes,  she  was  valueless ; 
this  young  man  seemed  to  be  without 
self-reference  or  self-effacement;  but  he 
was  quite  self-assured.  Had  he  some 
mental  talisman  by  which  he  accurately 
gauged  all  values,  his  own  included?  He 
seemed  at  once  so  oddly  above  yet  of  the 
world.  She  pulled  herself  together  to  re- 
member that  he  was,  only,  nineteen,  and 
that  she  had  had  motives  in  coming,  and 
that  if  these  motives  had  been  good  they 
were  now  better. 

"You  have  said  nothing;  but  I  am  go- 
ing to  ask  you  to  say  something";  she 
smiled  back  at  him.  "I  am  going  to  ask 
you  to  say  that  you  will  take  me  on  trust. 
I  am  your  friend  and  your  mother's 
friend." 

"Since  when,  my  mother's  ?"  Augustine 
asked.  His  amiability  of  aspect  remained 
constant. 

"Since  twenty  years." 

"Twenty  years  in  which  you  have 
not  seen  your  friend." 

"I  know  that  that  looks  strange.     But 

134 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

when  one  shuts  oneself  away  into  a  clois- 
ter one  shuts  out  friends." 

"Does  one?" 

"You  won't  trust  me?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  you,  ex- 
cept that  you  have  made  my  mother  ill  and 
that  you  want  something-  of  me." 

"My  dear  young  man  I,  at  all  events, 
know  one  thing  about  you  very  clearly, 
and  that  is  that  I  trust  you." 

"I  want  nothing  of  you,"  said  Augus- 
tine, but  he  still  smiled,  so  that  his  words 
did  not  seem  discourteous. 

"Nothing?  Really  nothing?  I  am  your 
mother's  friend,  and  you  want  nothing  of 
me?  I  have  sought  her  out;  I  came  today 
to  see  and  understand;  I  have  not  made 
her  ill;  she  was  nearly  crying  when  we 
came  into  the  room,  you  and  I,  a  little 
while  ago.  What  I  see  and  understand 
makes  me  sad  and  angry.  And  I  believe 
that  you,  too,  see  and  understand;  I  be- 
lieve that  you,  too,  are  sad  and  angry. 
And  I  want  to  help  you.  I  want  you, 
when  you  come  into  the  world,  as  you 

135 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

must,  to  bring  your  mother.  I  '11  be  wait- 
ing there  for  you  both.  I  am  a  sort  of 
fairy-godmother.  I  want  to  see  justice 
done." 

"I  suppose  you  mean  that  you  are  an- 
gry with  my  father  and  want  to  see  justice 
done  on  him,"  said  Augustine  after  a 
pause. 

Again  Lady  Elliston  sat  suddenly  still, 
as  if  another,  an  unexpected  bullet,  had 
whizzed  past  her.  "What  makes  you  say 
that?"  she  asked  after  a  moment. 

"What  you  have  said  and  what  you 
have  seen.  He  had  been  making  her  cry," 
said  Augustine.  He  was  still  calm,  but 
now,  under  the  calm,  she  heard,  like  the 
thunder  of  the  sea  in  caverns  deep  beneath 
a  placid  headland,  the  muffled  sound  of  a 
hidden,  a  dark  indignation. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  looking  into  his  eyes; 
"that  made  me  angry ;  and  that  he  should 
take  all  her  money  from  her,  as  I  am  sure 
he  does,  and  leave  her  to  live  like  this." 

Augustine's  colour  rose.     He  turned 
away  his  eyes  and  seemed  to  ponder. 
136 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"I  do  want  something  of  you,  after  all ; 
the  answer  to  one  question,"  he  said  at 
last.  "Is  it  because  of  him  that  she  is 
cloistered  here?" 

In  a  flash  Lady  Elliston  had  risen  to 
her  emergency,  her  opportunity.  She 
was  grave,  she  was  ready,  and  she  was 
very  careful. 

"It  was  her  own  choice,"  she  said. 

Augustine  pondered  again.  He,  too, 
was  grave  and  careful.  She  saw  how, 
making  use  of  her  proffered  help,  he  yet 
held  her  at  a  distance.  "That  does  not 
answer  my  question,"  he  said.  "I  will  put 
it  in  another  way.  Is  it  because  of  some 
evil  in  his  life  that  she  is  cloistered?" 

Lady  Elliston  sat  before  him  in  one  of 
the  high-backed  chairs:  the  light  was  be- 
hind her:  the  delicate  oval  of  her  face 
maintained  its  steady  attitude :  in  the  twi- 
lit  room  Augustine  could  see  her  eyes 
fixed  very  strangely  upon  him.  She,  too, 
was  perhaps  pondering.  When  at  last 
she  spoke,  she  rose  in  speaking,  as  if  her 
answer  must  put  an  end  to  their  encounter, 

137 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

as  if  he  must  feel,  as  well  as  she,  that 
after  her  answer  there  could  be  no  fur- 
ther question. 

"Not  altogether,  for  that,"  she  said; 
"but,  yes,  in  part  it  is  because  of  what 
you  would  call  an  evil  in  his  life  that  she 
is  cloistered." 

Augustine  walked  with  her  to  the  door 
and  down  the  stone  passage  outside, 
where  a  strip  of  faded  carpet  hardly  kept 
one's  feet  from  the  cold.  He  was  nearer 
to  her  in  this  curious  moment  of  their 
parting  than  he  had  been  at  all.  He  liked 
Lady  Elliston  in  her  last  response;  it  was 
not  the  wish  to  see  justice  wreaked  that 
had  made  it;  it  was  mere  truth. 

When  they  had  reached  the  hall 
door,  he  opened  it  for  her  and  in  the 
fading  light  he  saw  that  she  was  very 
pale.  The  Grey's  dog-cart  was  going 
slowly  round  and  round  the  gravel  drive. 
Lady  Elliston  did  not  look  at  him. 
She  stood  waiting  for  the  groom  to  see 
her. 

"What  you  asked  me  was  asked  in  con- 

138 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

fidence,"  she  said;  "and  what  I  have  told 
you  is  told  in  confidence." 

"It  was  n't  new  to  me;  I  had  guessed 
it,"  said  Augustine.  "But  your  confirma- 
tion of  what  I  guessed  is  in  confidence." 

"I  have  been  your  father's  life-long 
friend,"  said  Lady  Elliston;  "He  is  not 
an  evil  man." 

"I  understand.    I  don't  misjudge  him." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  justice  done  on 
him,"  said  Lady  Elliston.  The  groom  had 
seen  her  and  the  dog-cart,  with  a  brisk 
rattle  of  wheels,  drew  up  to  the  door.  "It 
is  n't  a  question  of  that;  I  only  want  to 
see  justice  done  for  her." 

All  through  she  had  been  steady;  now 
she  was  sweet  again.  "I  want  to  free  her. 
I  want  you  to  free  her.  And — whenever 
you  do— I  shall  be  waiting  to  give  her  to 
the  world  again." 

They  looked  at  each  other  now  and  Au- 
gustine could  answer,  with  another  smile ; 
"You  are  the  world,  I  suppose." 

"Yes;  I  am  the  world,"  she  accepted. 
"The  actual  fairy-godmother,  with  a 

139 


magic  wand  that  can  turn  pumpkins  into 
coaches  and  put  Cinderellas  into  their 
proper  places." 

Augustine  had  handed  her  up  to  her 
seat  beside  the  groom.  He  tucked  her  rug 
about  her.  If  he  had  laid  aside  anything 
to  meet  her  on  her  own  ground,  he,  too, 
had  regained  it  now. 

"But  does  the  world  always  know  what 
is  the  proper  place  ?"  was  his  final  remark 
as  she  drove  off. 

She  did  not  know  that  she  could  have 
found  an  answer  to  it. 


140 


VII 

i  MABEL  was  sitting  beside  her 
window  when  her  son  came  in 
and   the   face   she   turned   on 
him  was  white  and  rigid. 

"My  dear  mother,"  said  Augustine, 
coming  up  to  her,  "how  pale  you  are." 

She  had  been  sitting  there  for  all  that 
time,  tearless,  in  a  stupor  of  misery.  Yes, 
she  answered  him,  she  was  very  tired. 

Augustine  stood  over  her  looking  out 
of  the  window.  "A  little  walk  would  n't 
do  you  good?"  he  asked. 

No,  she  answered,  her  head  ached  too 
badly. 

She  could  find  nothing  to  say  to  him: 

the  truth  that  lay  so  icily  upon  her  heart 

was  all  that  she  could  have  said:  "I  am 

your  guilty  mother.    I  robbed  you  of  your 

141 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

father.  And  your  father  is  dead,  un- 
mourned,  unloved,  almost  forgotten  by 
me."  For  that  was  the  poison  in  her 
misery,  to  know  that  for  Paul  Quentin  she 
felt  almost  nothing.  To  hear  that  he  had 
died  was  to  hear  that  a  ghost  had  died. 

What  would  Augustine  say  to  her  if 
the  truth  were  spoken  ?  It  was  now  a 
looming  horror  between  them.  It  shut 
her  from  him  and  it  shut  him  away. 

"Oh,  do  come  out,"  said  Augustine 
after  a  moment:  "the  evening  's  so  fine: 
it  will  do  you  good ;  and  there  's  still  a  bit 
of  sunset  to  be  seen." 

She  shook  her  head,  looking  away  from 
him. 

"Is  it  really  so  bad  as  that  ?" 

"Yes;  very  bad." 

"Can't  I  do  anything?  Get  you  any- 
thing?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

"I  'm  so  sorry,"  said  Augustine,  and, 
suddenly,  but  gravely,  deliberately,  he 
stooped  and  kissed  her. 

"Oh— don't!— don't!"  she  gasped.  She 
142 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

thrust  him  away,  turning  her  face  against 
the  chair.  "Don't:  you  must  leave  me. — 
I  am  so  unhappy." 

The  words  sprang  forth :  she  could  not 
repress  them,  nor  the  gush  of  miserable 
tears. 

If  Augustine  was  horrified  he  was 
silent.  He  stood  leaning  over  her  for  a 
moment  and  then  went  out  of  the  room. 

She  lay  fallen  in  her  chair,  weeping 
convulsively.  The  past  was  with  her;  it 
had  seized  her  and,  in  her  panic-stricken 
words,  it  had  thrust  her  child  away.  What 
would  happen  now?  What  would  Augus- 
tine say?  What  would  he  ask?  If  he 
said  nothing  and  asked  nothing,  what 
would  he  think? 

She  tried  to  gather  her  thoughts  to- 
gether, to  pray  for  light  and  guidance; 
but,  like  a  mob  of  blind  men  locked  out 
from  sanctuary,  the  poor,  wild  thoughts 
only  fled  about  outside  the  church  and 
fumbled  at  the  church  door.  Her  very 
soul  seemed  shut  against  her. 

She  roused  herself  at  last,  mechanically 

143 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

telling  herself  that  she  must  go  through 
with  it;  she  must  dress  and  go  down  to 
dinner  and  she  must  find  something  to  say 
to  Augustine,  something  that  would  make 
what  had  happened  to  them  less  sinister 
and  inexplicable. 

— Unless — it  seemed  like  a  mad  cry 
raised  by  one  of  the  blind  men  in 
the  dark,— unless  she  told  him  all,  con- 
fessed all ; .  her  guilt,  her  shame,  the 
truths  of  her  blighted  life.  She  shud- 
dered; she  cowered  as  the  cry  came 
to  her,  covering  her  ears  and  shutting 
it  out.  It  was  mad,  mad.  She  had 
not  strength  for  such  a  task,  and  if 
that  were  weakness — oh,  with  a  long 
breath  she  drew  in  the  mitigation — if  it 
were  weakness,  would  it  not  be  a  cruel,  a 
heartless  strength  that  could  blight  her 
child's  life  too,  in  the  name  of  truth.  She 
must  not  listen  to  the  cry.  Yet  strangely 
it  had  echoed  in  her,  almost  as  if  from 
within,  not  from  without,  the  dark,  de- 
serted church;  almost  as  if  her  soul,  shut 
in  there  in  the  darkness,  were  crying  out 
144 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

to  her.  She  turned  her  mind  from  the 
sick  fancy. 

Augustine  met  her  at  dinner.  He  was 
pa|le  but  hei  seemed  composed.  They  spoke 
little.  He  said,  in  answer  to  her  question- 
ing, that  he  had  quite  liked  Lady  Elliston ; 
yes,  they  had  had  a  nice  talk;  she  seemed 
very  friendly;  he  should  go  and  see  her 
when  he  next  went  up  to  London. 

Amabel  felt  the  crispness  in  his  voice 
but,  centered  as  she  was  in  her  own  self- 
mastery,  she  could  not  guess  at  the  degree 
of  his. 

After  dinner  they  went  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, where  the  old,  ugly  lamp  added 
its  light  to  the  candles  on  the  mantel- 
piece. 

Augustine  took  his  book  and  sat  down 
at  one  side  of  the  table.  Amabel  sat  at 
the  other.  She,  too,  took  a  book  and  tried 
to  read;  a  little  time  passed  and  then  she 
found  that  her  hands  were  trembling  so 
much  that  she  could  not.  She  slid  the 
book  softly  back  upon  the  table,  reaching 
out  for  her  work-bag.  She  hoped  Augus- 

US 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

tine  had  not  seen,  but,  glancing  up  at  him, 
she  saw  his  eyes  upon  her. 

Augustine's  eyes  looked  strange  to- 
night. The  dark  rims  around  the  iris 
seemed  to  have  expanded.  Suddenly  she 
felt  horribly  afraid  of  him. 

They  gazed  at  each  other,  and  she 
forced  herself  to  a  trembling,  meaning- 
less smile.  And  when  she  smiled  at  him 
he  sprang  up  and  came  to  her.  He  leaned 
over  her,  and  she  shrank  back  into  her 
chair,  shutting  her  eyes. 

"You  must  tell  me  the  truth,"  said  Au- 
gustine. "I  can't  bear  this.  He  has  made 
you  unhappy.— £/>  comes  between  us." 

She  lay  back  in  the  darkness,  hearing 
the  incredible  words. 

"He?— What  do  you  mean?" 

"He  is  a  bad  man.  And  he  makes  you 
miserable.  And  you  love  him." 

She  heard  the  nightmare :  she  could  not 
look  at  it. 

"My  husband  bad?    He  is  good,  more 
good  than  you  can  guess.    What  do  you 
mean  by  speaking  so?" 
146 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

With  closed  eyes,  shutting  him  out, 
she  spoke,  anger  and  terror  in  her  voice. 

Augustine  lifted  himself  and  stood 
with  his  hands  clenched  looking  at  her. 

"You  say  that  because  you  love  him. 
You  love  him  more  than  anything  or  any- 
one in  the  world." 

"I  do.  I  love  him  more  than  anyone 
or  anything  in  the  world.  How  have 
you  dared — in  silence — in  secret — to 
nourish  these  thoughts  against  the  man 
who  has  given  you  all  you  have." 

"He  has  n't  given  me  all  I  have.  You 
are  everything  in  my  life  and  he  is 
nothing.  He  is  selfish.  He  is  sensual. 
He  is  stupid.  He  does  n't  know  what 
beauty  or  goodness  is.  I  hate  him,"  said 
Augustine. 

Her  eyes  at  last  opened  on  him.  She 
grasped  her  chair  and  raised  herself. 
Whose  hands  were  these,  desecrating  her 
holy  of  holies.  Her  son's?  Was  it  her 
son  who  spoke  these  words?  An  enemy 
stood  before  her. 

"Then  you  do  not  love  me.    If  you  hate 

147 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

him  you  do  not  love  me," — her  anger  had 
blotted  out  her  fear,  but  she  could  find  no 
other  than  these  childish  words  and  the 
tears  ran  down  her  face. 

"And  if  you  love  him  you  cannot  love 
me,"  Augustine  answered.  His  self-mas- 
tery was  gone.  It  was  a  fierce,  wild 
anger  that  stared  back  at  her.  His  young 
face  was  convulsed  and  livid. 

"It  is  you  who  are  bad  to  have  such 
false,  base  thoughts!"  his  mother  cried, 
and  her  eyes  in  their  indignation,  their 
horror,  struck  at  him,  accused  him,  thrust 
him  forth.  "You  are  cruel — and  hard — 
and  self-righteous. — You  do  not  love  me. 
— There  is  no  tenderness  in  your  heart !" — 

Augustine  burst  into  tears.  "There  is 
no  room  in  your  heart  for  me! — "  he 
gasped.  He  turned  from  her  and  rushed 
out  of  the  room. 

A  LONG  time  passed  before  she  leaned 
forward  in  the  chair  where  she  had  sat 
rigidly,  rested  her  elbows  on  her  knees, 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 
148 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

Her  heart  ached  and  her  mind  was 
empty:  that  was  all  she  knew.  It  had 
been  too  much.  This  torpor  of  sudden 
weakness  was  merciful.  Now  she  would 
go  to  bed  and  sleep. 

It  took  her  a  long  time  to  go  upstairs; 
her  head  whirled,  and  if  she  had  not 
clung  to  the  baluster  she  would  have 
fallen. 

In  the  passage  above  she  paused  out- 
side Augustine's  door  and  listened.  She 
heard  him  move  inside,  walking  to  his 
window,  to  lean  out  into  the  night,  prob- 
ably, as  was  his  wont.  That  was  well. 
He,  too,  would  sleep  presently. 

In  her  room  she  said  to  her  maid  that 
she  did  not  need  her.  It  took  her  but  a 
few  minutes  tonight  to  prepare  for  bed. 
She  could  not  even  braid  her  uncoiled 
hair.  She  tossed  it,  all  loosened,  above 
her  head  as  she  fell  upon  the  pillow. 

She  heard,  for  a  little  while,  the  dull 

thumping  of  her  heart.    Her  breath  was 

warm  in   a   mesh   of   hair   beneath   her 

cheek;  she  was  too  sleepy  to  put  it  away. 

149 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

SHE  was  wakened  next  morning  by  the 
maid.  Her  curtains  were  drawn  and  a 
dull  light  from  a  rain-blotted  world  was 
in  the  room. 

The  maid  brought  a  note  to  her  bed- 
side. From  Mr.  Augustine,  she  said. 

Amabel  raised  herself  to  hold  the  sheet 
to  the  light  and  read:  — 

"Dear  mother,"  it  said.  "I  think  that 
I  shall  go  and  stay  with  Wallace  for  a 
week  or  so.  I  shall  see  you  before  I  go 
up  to  Oxford.  Try  to  forgive  me  for  my 
violence  last  night.  I  am  sorry  to  have 
added  to  your  unhappiness.  Your  af- 
fectionate son — Augustine." 

Her  mind  was  still  empty.  "Has  Mr. 
Augustine  gone?"  she  asked  the  maid. 

"Yes,  ma'am;  he  left  quite  early,  to 
catch  the  eight-forty  train." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Amabel.  She  sank 
back  on  her  pillow.  "I  will  have  my 
breakfast  in  bed.  Tea,  please,  only,  and 
toast." — Then,  the  long  habit  of  self-dis- 
cipline asserting  itself,  the  necessity  for 
keeping  strength,  if  it  were  only  to  be 

150 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

spent  in  suffering: — "No,  coffee,  and  an 
egg,  too." 

She  found,  indeed,  that  she  was  very 
hungry;  she  had  eaten  nothing  yesterday. 
After  her  bath  and  the  brushing  and 
braiding  of  her  hair,  it  was  pleasant  to 
lie  propped  high  on  her  pillows  and  to 
drink  her  hot  coffee.  The  morning 
papers,  too,  were  nice  to  look  at,  folded 
on  her  tray.  She  did  not  wish  to  read 
them;  but  they  spoke  of  a  firmly  estab- 
lished order,  sustaining  her  life  and  as- 
suring her  of  ample  pillows  to  lie  on  and 
hot  coffee  to  drink,  assuring  her  that  bod- 
ily comforts  were  pleasant  whatever  else 
was  painful.  It  was  a  childish,  a  still 
stupefied  mood,  she  knew,  but  it  supported 
her;  an  oasis  of  the  familiar,  the  safe,  in 
the  midst  of  whirling,  engulfing  storms. 

It  supported  her  through  the  hours 
when  she  lay,  with  closed  eyes,  listening 
to  the  pour  and  drip  of  the  rain,  when, 
finally  deciding  to  get  up,  she  rose  and 
dressed  very  carefully,  taking  all  her 
time. 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

Below,  in  the  drawing-room,  when  she 
entered,  it  was  very  dark.  The  fire  was 
unlit,  the  bowls  of  roses  were  faded;  and 
sudden,  childish  tears  filled  her  eyes  at 
the  desolateness.  On  such  a  day  as  this 
Augustine  would  have  seen  that  the  fire 
was  burning,  awaiting  her.  She  found 
matches  and  lighted  it  herself  and  the  re- 
luctantly creeping  brightness  made  the 
day  feel  the  drearier;  it  took  a  long  time 
even  to  warm  her  foot  as  she  stood  before 
it,  leaning  her  arm  on  the  mantel-piece. 

It  was  Saturday;  she  should  not  see 
her  girls  today;  there  was  relief  in  that, 
for  she  did  not  think  that  she  could  have 
found  anything  to  say  to  them  this  morn- 
ing. 

Looking  at  the  roses  again,  she  felt 
vexed  with  the  maid  for  having  left  them 
there  in  their  melancholy.  She  rang  and 
spoke  to  her  almost  sharply  telling  her 
to  take  them  away,  and  when  she  had 
gone  felt  the  tears  rise  with  surprise  and 
compunction  for  the  sharpness. 

There  would  be  no  fresh  flowers  in  the 

152 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

room  today,  it  was  raining  too  hard.  If 
Augustine  had  been  here  he  would  have 
gone  out  and  found  her  some  wet  branches 
of  beech  or  sycamore  to  put  in  the  vases : 
he  knew  how  she  disliked  a  flowerless, 
leafless  room,  a  dislike  he  shared. 

How  the  rain  beat  down.  She  stood 
looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  sodden 
earth,  the  blotted  shapes  of  the  trees. 
Beyond  the  nearest  meadows  it  was 
like  a  grey  sheet  drawn  down,  confusing 
earth  and  sky  and  shutting  vision  into 
an  islet. 

She  hoped  that  Augustine  had  taken 
his  mackintosh.  He  was  very  forgetful 
about  such  things.  She  went  out  to  look 
into  the  bleak,  stone  hall  hung  with  old 
hunting  prints  that  were  dimmed  and 
spotted  with  age  and  damp.  Yes,  it  was 
gone  from  its  place,  and  his  ulster,  too. 
It  had  been  a  considered,  not  a  hasty  de- 
parture. A  tweed  cloak  that  he  often 
wore  on  their  walks  hung  there  still  and, 
vaguely,  as  though  she  sought  something, 
she  turned  it,  looked  at  it,  put  her  hands 

153 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

into  the  worn,  capacious  pockets.  All 
were  empty  except  one  where  she  found 
some  withered  gorse  flowers.  Augustine 
was  fond  of  stripping  off  the  golden  blos- 
soms as  they  passed  a  bush,  of  putting 
his  nose  into  the  handful  of  fragrance, 
and  then  holding  it  out  for  her  to  smell 
it,  too: — "Is  it  apricots,  or  is  it  peaches?" 
she  could  hear  him  say. 

She  went  back  into  the  drawing-room 
holding  the  withered  flowers.  Their 
fragrance  was  all  gone,  but  she  did  not 
like  to  burn  them.  She  held  them  and 
bent  her  face  to  them  as  she  stood  again 
looking  out.  He  would  by  now  have 
reached  his  destination.  Wallace  was  an 
Eton  friend,  a  nice  boy,  who  had  some- 
times stayed  at  Charlock  House.  He  and 
Augustine  were  perhaps  already  arguing 
about  Nietzsche. 

Strange  that  her  numbed  thoughts 
should  creep  along  this  path  of  custom, 
of  maternal  associations  and  solicitudes, 
forgetful  of  fear  and  sorrow.  The  recog- 
nition came  with  a  sinking  pang.  Re- 

154 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

luctantly,  unwillingly,  her  mind  was 
forced  back  to  contemplate  the  catastrophe 
that  had  befallen  her.  He  was  her  judge, 
her  enemy:  yet,  on  this  dismal  day,  how 
she  missed  him.  She  leaned  her  head 
against  the  window-frame  and  the  tears 
fell  and  fell. 

If  he  were  there,  could  she  not  go  to 
him  and  take  his  hand  and  say  that,  what- 
ever the  deep  wounds  they  had  dealt  each 
other,  they  needed  each  other  too  much 
to  be  apart.  Could  she  not  ask  him  to 
take  her  back,  to  forgive  her,  to  love  her  ? 
Ah — there  full  memory  rushed  in.  Her 
heart  seemed  to  pant  and  gasp  in  the  sud- 
den coil.  Take  him  back?  When  it  was 
her  steady  fear  as  well  as  her  sudden 
anger  that  had  banished  him,  he  thought 
he  loved  her,  but  that  was  because  he  did 
not  know  and  it  was  the  anger  rather 
than  the  love  of  Augustine's  last  words 
that  came  to  her.  He  loved  her  because 
he  believed  her  good,  and  that  imaginary 
goodness  cast  a  shadow  on  her  husband. 
To  believe  her  good  Augustine  had  been 

155 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

forced  to  believe  evil  of  the  man  she  loved 
and  to  whom  they  both  owed  everything. 
He  had  said  that  he  was  shut  out  from 
her  heart,  and  it  was  true,  and  her  heart 
broke  in  seeing  it.  But  it  was  by  more 
than  the  sacred  love  for  her  husband  that 
her  child  was  shut  out.  Her  past,  her 
guilt,  was  with  her  and  stood. as  a  barrier 
between  them.  She  was  separated  from 
him  for  ever.  And,  looking  round  the 
room,  suddenly  terrified,  it  seemed  to  her 
that  Augustine  was  dead  and  that  she 
was  utterly  alone. 


156 


VIII 

[HE  did  not  write  to  Augustine 
for  some  days.  There  seemed 
nothing  that  she  could  say. 
To  say  that  she  forgave  him  might  seem 
to  put  aside  too  easily  the  deep  wrong  he 
had  done  her  and  her  husband;  to  say 
that  she  longed  to  see  him  and  that,  in 
spite  of  all,  her  heart  was  his,  seemed  to 
make  deeper  the  chasm  of  falseness  be- 
tween them. 

The  rain  fell  during  all  these  days. 
Sometimes  a  pale  evening  sunset  would 
light  the  western  horizon  under  lifted 
clouds  and  she  could  walk  out  and  up 
and  down  the  paths,  among  her  sodden 
rose-trees,  or  down  into  the  wet,  dark 
woods.  Sometimes  at  night  she  saw  a 
melancholy  star  shining  here  and  there 

157 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

in  the  vaporous  sky.  But  in  the  morning 
the  grey  sheet  dropped  once  more  be- 
tween her  and  the  outer  world,  and  the 
sound  of  the  steady  drip  and  beat  was 
like  an  outer  echo  to  her  inner  wretched- 
ness. 

It  was  on  the  fourth  day  that  wretched- 
ness turned  to  bitter  restlessness,  and  that 
to  a  sudden  resolve.  Not  to  write,  not 
even  to  say  she  forgave,  might  make  him 
think  that  her  heart  was  still  hardened 
against  him.  Her  fear  had  blunted  her 
imagination.  Clearly  now  she  saw,  and 
with  an  anguish  in  the  vision,  that  Au- 
gustine must  be  suffering  too.  Clearly 
she  heard  the  love  in  his  parting  words. 
And  she  longed  so  to  see,  to  hear  that 
love  again,  that  the  longing,  as  if  with 
sudden  impatience  of  the  hampering 
sense  of  sin,  rushed  into  words  that 
might  bring  him. 

She  wrote:  —  "My  dear  Augustine.  I 
miss  you  very  much.  Is  n't  this  dismal 
weather.  I  am  feeling  better.  I  need  not 
tell  you  that  I  do  forgive  you  for  the  mis- 

158 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

take  that  hurts  us  both."  Then  she 
paused,  for  her  heart  cried  out  "Oh — 
come  back  soon";  but  she  did  not  dare 
yield  to  that  cry.  She  hardly  knew  that, 
with  uncertain  fingers,  she  only  repeated 
again: — "I  miss  you  very  much.  Your 
affectionate  mother." 

This  was  on  the  fourth  day. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  fifth  she  stood, 
as  she  so  often  stood,  looking  out  at  the 
drawing-room  window.  She  was  looking 
and  listening,  detached  from  what  she 
saw,  yet  absorbed,  too,  for,  as  with  her 
son,  this  watchfulness  of  natural  things 
was  habitual  to  her. 

It  was  still  raining,  but  more  fitfully: 
a  wind  had  risen  and  against  a  scudding 
sky  the  sycamores  tossed  their  foliage, 
dark  or  pale  by  turns  as  the  wind  passed 
over  them.  A  broad  pool  of  water,  dap- 
pling incessantly  with  rain-drops,  had 
formed  along  the  farther  edge  of  the 
walk  where  it  slanted  to  the  lawn :  it  was 
this  pool  that  Amabel  was  watching  and 
the  bobbin-like  dance  of  drops  that  looked 

159 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

like  little  glass  thimbles.  The  old  leaden 
pipes,  curiously  moulded,  that  ran  down 
the  house  beside  the  windows,  splashed 
and  gurgled  loudly.  The  noise  of  the 
rushing,  falling  water  shut  out  other 
sounds.  Gazing  at  the  dancing  thimbles 
she  was  unaware  that  someone  had  en- 
tered the  room  behind  her. 

Suddenly  two  hands  were  laid  upon  her 
shoulders. 

The  shock,  going  through  her,  was  like 
a  violent  electric  discharge.  She  tingled 
from  head  to  foot,  and  almost  with  terror. 
"Augustine !"  she  gasped.  But  the  shock 
was  to  change,  yet  grow,  as  if  some  alien 
force  had  penetrated  her  and  were  disin- 
tegrating every  atom  of  her  blood. 

"No,  not  Augustine,"  said  her  hus- 
band's voice :  "But  you  can  be  glad  to  see 
me,  can't  you,  Amabel?" 

He  had  taken  off  his  hands  now  and 
she  could  turn  to  him,  could  see  his  bright, 
smiling  face  looking  at  her,  could  feel 
him  as  something  wonderful  and  radiant 
filling  the  dismal  day,  filling  her  dismal 
160 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

heart,  with  its  presence.  But  the  shock 
still  so  trembled  in  her  that  she  did  not 
move  from  her  place  or  speak,  leaning 
back  upon  the  window  as  she  looked  at 
him,— for  he  was  very  near, — and  putting 
her  hands  upon  the  window-sill  on  either 
side.  "You  did  n't  expect  to  see  me,  did 
you,"  Sir  Hugh  said. 

She  shook  her  head.  Never,  never,  in 
all  these  years,  had  he  come  again,  so 
soon.  Months,  always,  sometimes  years, 
had  elapsed  between  his  visits. 

"The  last  time  did  n't  count,  did  it," 
he  went  on,  in  speech  vague  and  desultory 
yet,  at  the  same  time,  intent  and  bright 
in  look.  "I  was  so  bothered;  I  behaved 
like  a  selfish  brute;  I  'm  sure  you  felt  it. 
And  you  were  so  particularly  kind  and 
good — and  dear  to  me,  Amabel." 

She  felt  herself  flushing.  He  stood  so 
near  that  she  could  not  move  forward 
and  he  must  read  the  face,  amazed,  per- 
plexed, incredulous  of  its  joy,  yet  all 
lighted  from  his  presence,  that  she  kept 
fixed  on  him.  For  ah,  what  joy  to  see 

11  161 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

him,  to  feel  that  here,  here  alone  of  all 
the  world,  was  she  safe,  consoled,  known 
yet  cared  for.  He  who  understood  all  as 
no  one  else  in  the  world  understood,  could 
stand  and  smile  at  her  like  that. 

"You  look  thin,  and  pale,  and  tired," 
were  his  next  words.  "What  have  you 
been  doing  to  yourself?  Is  n't  Augustine 
here?  You  're  not  alone?" 

"Yes;  I  am  alone.  Augustine  is  stay- 
ing with  the  Wallace  boy." 

With  the  mention  of  Augustine  the 
dark  memory  came,  but  it  was  now  of 
something  dangerous  and  hostile  shut 
away,  yes,  safely  shut  away,  by  this  en- 
compassing brightness,  this  sweetness  of 
intent  solicitude.  She  no  longer  yearned 
to  see  Augustine. 

Sir  Hugh  looked  at  her  for  some  mo- 
ments, when  she  said  that  she  was  alone, 
without  speaking.  "That  is  nice  for  me," 
he  then  said.  "But  how  miserable, — for 
you, — it  must  have  been.  What  a  shame 
that  you  should  have  been  left  alone  in 
this  dull  place,— and  this  wretched 

162 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

weather,  too!— Did  you  ever  see  such 
weather."  He  looked  past  her  at  the 
rain. 

"It  has  been  wretched,"  said  Amabel; 
but  she  spoke,  as  she  felt,  in  the  past: 
nothing  seemed  wretched  now. 

"And  you  were  staring  out  so  hard, 
that  you  never  heard  me,"  He  came  be- 
side her  now,  as  if  to  look  out,  too,  and, 
making  room  for  him,  she  also  turned 
and  they  looked  out  at  the  rain  together. 

"A  filthy  day,"  said  Sir  Hugh,  "I  can't 
bear  to  think  that  this  is  what  you  have 
been  doing,  all  alone." 

"I  don't  mind  it.  I  have  the  girls,  on 
three  mornings,  you  know." 

"You  mean  that  you  don't  mind  it  be- 
cause you  are  so  used  to  it  ?" 

She  had  regained  some  of  her  compos- 
ure:— for  one  thing  he  was  beside  her, 
no  longer  blocking  her  way  back  into  the 
room.  "I  like  solitude,  you  know,"  she 
was  able  to  smile. 

"Really  like  it?" 

"Sometimes." 

163 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"Better  than  the  company  of  some  peo- 
ple, you  mean?" 

"Yes." 

"But  not  better  than  mine,"  he  smiled 
back.  "Come,  do  encourage  me,  and  say 
that  you  are  glad  to  see  me." 

In  her  joy  the  bewilderment  was  grow- 
ing, but  she  said  that,  of  course,  she  was 
glad  to  see  him. 

"I  've  been  so  bored,  so  badgered,"  said 
Sir  Hugh,  stretching  himself  a  little  as 
though  to  throw  off  the  incubus  of  tire- 
some memories;  "and  this  morning  when 
I  left  a  dull  country  house,  I  said  to  my- 
self :  Why  not  go  down  and  see  Amabel  ? 
— I  don't  believe  she  will  mind. — I  be- 
lieve that,  perhaps,  she  '11  be  pleased. — I 
know  that  I  want  to  go  very  much. — So 
here  I  am: — very  glad  to  be  here — with 
dear  Amabel." 

She  looked  out,  silent,  blissful,  and 
perplexed. 

He  was  not  hard ;  he  was  not  irritated ; 
all  trace  of  vexed  preoccupation  was 
gone;  but  he  was  not  the  Sir  Hugh  that 
164 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

she  had  seen  for  all  these  twenty  years. 
He  was  new,  and  yet  he  reminded  her  of 
something,  and  the  memory  moved 
towards  her  through  a  thick  mist  of 
years,  moved  like  a  light  through  mist. 
Far,  sweet,  early  things  came  to  her  as 
its  heralds ;  the  sound  of  brooks  running ; 
the  primrose  woods  where  she  had  wan- 
dered as  a  girl;  the  singing  of  prophetic 
birds  in  Spring.  The  past  had  never 
come  so  near  as  now  when  Sir  Hugh — 
yes,  there  it  was,  the  fair,  far  light — was 
making  her  remember  their  long  past 
courtship.  And  a  shudder  of  sweetness 
went  through  her  as  she  remembered,  of 
sweetness  yet  of  unutterable  sadness,  as 
though  something  beautiful  and  dead 
had  been  shown  to  her.  She  seemed  to 
lean,  trembling,  to  kiss  the  lips  of  a 
beautiful  dead  face,  before  drawing 
over  it  the  shroud  that  must  cover  it 
for  ever. 

Sir  Hugh  was  silent  also.  Her  silence, 
perhaps,  made  him  conscious  of  memor- 
ies. Presently,  looking  behind  them,  he 

165 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

said:  —  "I  'm  keeping  you  standing.  Shall 
we  go  to  the  fire?" 

She  followed  him,  bending  a  little  to 
the  fire,  her  arm  on  the  mantel-shelf,  a 
hand  held  out  to  the  blaze.  Sir  Hugh 
stood  on  the  other  side.  She  was  not 
thinking  of  herself,  hardly  of  him.  Sud- 
denly he  took  the  dreaming  hand,  stooped 
to  it,  and  kissed  it.  He  had  released  it 
before  she  had  time  to  know  her  own  as- 
tonishment. 

"You  did  kiss  mine,  you  know,"  he 
smiled,  leaning  his  arm,  too,  on  the  man- 
tel-shelf and  looking  at  her  with  gaily 
supplicating  eyes.  "Don't  be  angry." 

The  shroud  had  dropped:  the  past  was 
gone:  she  was  once  more  in  the  present 
of  oppressive,  of  painful  joy. 

She  would  have  liked  to  move  away 
and  take  her  chair  at  some  distance;  but 
that  would  have  looked  like  flight ;  foolish 
indeed.  She  summoned  her  common- 
sense,  her  maturity,  her  sorrow,  to  smile 
back,  to  say  in  a  voice  she  strove  to  make 
166 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

merely    light:    "Unusual    circumstances 
excused  me." 

"Unusual  circumstances  ?" 

"You  had  been  very  kind.  I  was  very 
grateful." 

Sir  Hugh  for  a  moment  was  silent, 
looking  at  her  with  his  intent,  interrog- 
atory gaze.  "You  are  always  kind  to 
me,"  he  then  said.  "I  am  always  grate- 
ful. So  may  I  always  kiss  your  hand?" 

Her  eyes  fell  before  his.  "If  you  wish 
to,"  she  answered  gravely. 

"You  frighten  me  a  little,  do .  you 
know,"  said  Sir  Hugh.  "Please  don't 
frighten  me. — Are  you  really  angry? — / 
don't  frighten  you?" 

"You  bewilder  me  a  little,"  Amabel 
murmured.  She  looked  into  the  fire,  near 
tears,  indeed,  in  her  bewilderment;  and 
Sir  Hugh  looked  at  her,  looked  hard  and 
carefully,  at  her  noble  figure,  her  white 
hands,  the  gold  and  white  of  her  leaning 
head.  He  looked,  as  if  measuring  the  de- 
gree of  his  own  good  fortune. 
167 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"You  are  so  lovely,"  he  then  said 
quietly. 

She  blushed  like  a  girl. 

"You  are  the  most  beautiful  woman  I 
know,"  said  Sir  Hugh.  "There  is  no 
one  like  you."  He  put  his  hand  out  to 
hers,  and,  helplessly,,  she  yielded  it. 
"Amabel,  do  you  know,  I  have  fallen  in 
love  with  you." 

She  stood  looking  at  him,  stupefied ;  her 
eyes  ecstatic  and  appalled. 

"Do  I  displease  you  ?"  asked  Sir  Hugh. 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Do  I  please  you?"  Still  she  gazed  at 
him,  speechless. 

"Do  you  care  at  all  for  me?"  he  asked, 
and,  though  grave,  he  smiled  a  little  at 
her  in  asking  the  question.  How  could 
he  not  know  that,  for  years,  she  had 
cared  for  him  more  than  for  anything, 
anyone  ? 

And  when  he  asked  her  this  last  ques- 
tion, the  oppression  was  too  great.  She 
drew  her  hand  from  his,  and  laid  her 
arms  upon  the  mantel-shelf  and  hid  her 
168 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

face  upon  them.  It  was  a  helpless  con- 
fession. It  was  a  helpless  appeal. 

But  the  appeal  was  not  understood,  or 
was  disregarded.  In  a  moment  her  hus- 
band's arms  were  about  her. 

This  was  new.  This  was  not  like  their 
courtship. — Yet,  it  reminded  her,— of 
what  did  it  remind  her  as  he  murmured 
words  of  victory,  clasped  her  and  kissed 
her?  It  reminded  her  of  Paul  Quentin. 
In  the  midst  of  the  amazing  joy  she  knew 
that  the  horror  was  as  great. 

"Ah  don't! — how  can  you! — how  can 
you!"  she  said. 

She  drew  away  from  him  but  he  would 
not  let  her  go. 

"How  can  I?  How  can  I  do  anything 
else?"  he  laughed,  in  easy  yet  excited  tri- 
umph. "You  do  love  me — you  darling 
nun!" 

She  had  freed  her  hands  and  covered 
her  face:  "I  beg  of  you,"  she  prayed. 

The  agony  of  her  sincerity  was  too  ap- 
parent. Sir  Hugh  unclasped  his  arms. 
She  went  to  her  chair,  sat  down,  leaned 

169 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

on  the  table,  still  covering  her  eyes.  So 
she  had  leaned,  years  ago,  with  hidden 
face,  in  telling  Bertram  of  the  coming  of 
the  child.  It  seemed  to  her  now  that  her 
shame  was  more  complete,  more  over- 
whelming. And,  though  it  overwhelmed 
her,  her  bliss  was  there;  the  golden  and 
the  black  streams  ran  together. 

"Dearest, — should  I  have  been  less  sud- 
den?" Sir  Hugh  was  beside  her,  leaning 
over  her,  reasoning,  questioning,  only 
just  not  caressing  her.  "It 's  not  as  if  we 
did  n't  know  each  other,  Amabel:  we 
have  been  strangers,  in  a  sense; — yet, 
through  it  all— all  these  years — have  n't 
we  felt  near? — Ah  darling,  you  can't 
deny  it; — you  can't  deny  you  love  me." 
His  arm  was  pressing  her. 

"Please — "  she  prayed  again,  and  he 
moved  his  hand  further  away,  beyond  her 
crouching  shoulder. 

"You  are  such  a  little  nun  that  you 

can't  bear  to  be  loved?— Is  that  it?  But 

you  '11  have  to  learn  again.   You  are  more 

than  a  nun:  you  are  a  beautiful  woman: 

170 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

young;  wonderfully  young.  It  's  aston- 
ishing how  like  a  girl  you  are." — Sir 
Hugh  seemed  to  muse  over  a  fact  that 
allured.  "And  however  like  a  nun  you  Ve 
lived — you  can't  deny  that  you  love  me." 

"You  have  n't  loved  me,"  Amabel  at 
last  could  say. 

He  paused,  but  only  for  a  moment. 
"Perhaps  not:  but,"  his  voice  had  now 
the  delicate  aptness  that  she  remembered, 
"how  could  I  believe  that  there  was  a 
chance  for  me?  How  could  I  think  you 
could  ever  come  to  care,  like  this,  when 
you  had  left  me — you  know — Amabel." 

She  was  silent,  her  mind  whirling.  And 
his  nearness,  as  he  leaned  over  her,  was 
less  ecstasy  than  terror.  It  was  as  if  she 
only  knew  her  love,  her  sacred  love  again, 
when  he  was  not  near. 

"It  's  quite  of  late  that  I  've  begun  to 
wonder,"  said  Sir  Hugh.  "Stupid  ass 
of  course,  not  to  have  seen  the  jewel  I 
held  in  my  hand.  But  you  Ve  only  showed 
me  the  nun,  you  darling.  I  knew  you 
cared,  but  I  never  knew  how  much. — I 
171 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

ought    to    have    had    more    self-conceit, 
ought  n't  I?" 

"I  have  cared.  You  have  been  all  that 
is  beautiful.— I  have  cared  more  than  for 
anything. — But — oh,  it  could  not  have 
been  this.— This  would  have  killed  me 
with  shame,"  said  Amabel. 

"With  shame?  Why,  you  strange 
angel?" 

"Can  you  ask  ?"  she  said  in  a  trembling 
voice. 

His   hand   caressed   her   hair,    slipped 
around  her  neck.  "You  nun;  you  saint.— 
Does   that  girlish   peccadillo   still   haunt 
you?" 

"Don't— oh  don't— call  it  that — call  me 
that!-" 

"Call  you  a  saint?  But  what  else  are 
you? — a  beautiful  saint.  What  other 
woman  could  have  lived  the  life  you  Ve 
lived?  It  's  wonderful." 

"Don't.     I  cannot  bear  it." 

"Can't  bear  to  be  called  a  saint?  Ah, 
but,  you  see,  that  's  just  why  you  are 
one." 

She  could  not  speak.     She  could  not 
172 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

even  say  the  only  answering  word:  a 
sinner.  Her  hands  were  like  leaden 
weights  upon  her  brows.  In  the  darkness 
she  heard  her  heart  beating  heavily,  and 
tried  and  tried  to  catch  some  fragment  of 
meaning  from  her  whirling  thoughts. 

And  as  if  her  self-condemnation  were 
a  further  enchantment,  her  husband  mur- 
mured :  "It  makes  you  all  the  lovelier  that 
you  should  feel  like  that.  It  makes  me 
more  in  love  with  you  than  ever :  but  for- 
get it  now.  Let  me  make  you  forget  it. 
I  can. — Darling,  your  beautiful  hair.  I 
remember  it;— it  is  as  beautiful  as  ever. 
— I  remember  it; — it  fell  to  your  knees. 
—Let  me  see  your  face,  Amabel." 

She  was  shuddering,  shrinking  from 
him. — "Oh — no— no. — Do  you  not  see — 
not  feel— that  it  is  impossible — " 

"Impossible!  Why? — My  darling,  you 
are  my  wife; — and  if  you  love  me? — " 

They  were  whirling  impossibilities ;  she 

could  see  none  clearly  but  one  that  flashed 

out  for  her  now  in  her  extremity  of  need, 

bright,  ominous,  accusing.    She  seized  it: 

-"Augustine." 

173 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"Augustine?  What  of  him?"  Sir 
Hugh's  voice  had  an  edge  to  it. 

"He  could  not  bear  it.  It  would  break 
his  heart." 

"What  has  he  to  do  with  it?  He  is  n't 
all  your  life : — you  've  given  him  most  of 
it  already." 

"He  is,  he  must  be,  all  my  life,  except 
that  beautiful  part  that  you  were: — that 
you  are: — oh  you  will  stay  my  friend!" — 

"I  '11  stay  your  lover,  your  determined 
lover  and  husband,  Amabel.  Darling,  you 
are  ridiculous,  enchanting — with  your 
barriers,  your  scruples."  The  fear,  the 
austerity,  he  felt  in  her  fanned  his  ardour 
to  flame.  His  arms  once  more  went 
round  her;  he  murmured  words  of  lover- 
like  pleading,  rapturous,  wild  and  foolish. 
And,  though  her  love,  her  sacred  love  for 
him  was  there,  his  love  for  her  was  a 
nightmare  to  her  now.  She  had  lost  her- 
self, and  it  was  as  though  she  lost  him, 
while  he  pleaded  thus.  And  again  and 
again  she  answered,  resolute  and  tor- 
mented:— "No:  no:  never — never.  Do 

174 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

not  speak  so  to  me. — Do  not — I  beg  of 
you." 

Suddenly  he  released  her.  He  straight- 
ened himself,  and  moved  away  from  her 
a  little.  Someone  had  entered. 

Amabel  dropped  her  hands  and  raised 
her  eyes  at  last.  Augustine  stood  before 
them. 

Augustine  had  on  still  his  long  trav- 
elling coat;  his  cap,  beaded  with  rain- 
drops, was  in  his  hand;  his  yellow  hair 
was  ruffled.  He  had  entered  hastily.  He 
stood  there  looking  at  them,  transfixed, 
yet  not  astonished.  He  was  very  pale. 

For  some  moments  no  one  of  them 
spoke.  Sir  Hugh  did  not  move  further 
from  his  wife's  side:  he  was  neither  anx- 
ious nor  confused;  but  his  face  wore  an 
involuntary  scowl. 

The  deep  confusion  was  Amabel's.  But 
her  husband  had  released  her;  no  longer 
pleaded;  and  with  the  lifting  of  that  dire 
oppression  the  realities  of  her  life  flooded 
her  almost  with  relief.  It  was  impossible, 
this  gay,  this  facile,  this  unseemly  love, 

175 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

but,  as  she  rejected  and  put  it  from  her, 
the  old  love  was  the  stronger,  cherished 
the  more  closely,  in  atonement  and  solici- 
tude, the  man  shrunk  from  and  repulsed. 
And  in  all  the  deep  confusion,  before  her 
son, — that  he  should  find  her  so,  almost 
in  her  husband's  arms, — a  flash  of  clarity 
went  through  her  mind  as  she  saw  them 
thus  confronted.  Deeper  than  ever  be- 
tween her  and  Augustine  was  the  chal- 
lenge of  her  love  and  his  hatred;  but  it 
was  that  sacred  love  that  now  needed 
safeguards ;  she  could  not  feel  it  when  her 
husband  was  near  and  pleading;  Augus- 
tine was  her  refuge  from  oppression. 

She  rose  and  went  to  him  and  timidly 
clasped  his  arm.  "Dear  Augustine,  I  am 
so  glad  you  have  come  back.  I  have 
missed  you  so." 

He  stood  still,  not  responding  to  her 
touch:  but,  as  she  held  him,  he  looked 
across  the  room  at  Sir  Hugh.  "You 
wrote  you  missed  me.  That  's  why  I 
came." 

Sir  Hugh  now  strolled  to  the  fire  and 
176 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

stood  before  it,  turning  to  face  Augus- 
tine's gaze;  unperturbed;  quite  at  ease. 

"How  wet  you  are  dear,"  said  Amabel. 
"Take  off  this  coat." 

Augustine  stripped  it  off  and  flung  it 
on  a  chair.  She  could  hear  his  quick 
breathing:  he  did  not  look  at  her.  And 
still  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  his  anger 
rather  than  his  love  that  protected  her. 

"He  will  want  to  change,  dearest,"  said 
Sir  Hugh  from  before  the  fire.  "And, — 
I  want  to  finish  my  talk  with  you." 

Augustine  now  looked  at  his  mother, 
at  the  blush  that  overwhelmed  her  as  that 
possessive  word  was  spoken.  "Do  you 
want  me  to  go?" 

"No,  dear,  no. — It  is  only  the  coat  that 
is  wet,  is  n't  it.  Don't  go:  I  want  to  see 
you,  of  course,  after  your  absence. — 
Hugh,  you  will  excuse  us;  it  seems  such 
a  long  time  since  I  saw  him.  You  and  I 
will  finish  our  talk  on  another  day.— Or 
I  will  write  to  you." 

She  knew  what  it  must  look  like  to  her 
husband,  this  weak  recourse  to  the  pro- 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

tection  of  Augustine's  presence;  it  looked 
like  bashfulness,  a  further  feminine  wile, 
made  up  of  self-deception  and  allurement, 
a  putting  off  of  final  surrender  for 
the  greater  sweetness  of  delay.  And  as 
the  reading  of  him  flashed  through 
her  it  brought  a  strange  pang  of 
shame,  for  him;  of  regret,  for  something 
spoiled. 

Sir  Hugh  took  out  his  watch  and  looked 
at  it.  "Five  o'clock.  I  told  the  station 
fly  to  come  back  for  me  at  five  fifteen. 
You  '11  give  me  some  tea,  dearest?" 

"Of  course;— it  is  time  now. — Augus- 
tine, will  you  ring?" 

The  miserable  blush  covered  her  again. 

The  tea  came  and  they  were  silent  while 
the  maid  set  it  out.  Augustine  had 
thrown  himself  into  a  chair  and  stared 
before  him.  Sir  Hugh,  very  much  in  pos- 
session, kept  his  place  before  the  fire. 
Catching  Amabel's  eye  he  smiled  at  her. 
He  was  completely  assured.  How  should 
he  not  be?  What,  for  his  seeing,  could 
stand  between  them  now? 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

When  the  maid  was  gone  and  Amabel 
was  making  tea,  he  came  and  stood  over 
her,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  hand- 
some head  bent  to  her,  talking  lightly, 
slightly  jesting,  his  voice  pitched  inti- 
mately for  her  ear,  yet  not  so  intimately 
that  any  unkindness  of  exclusion  should 
appear.  Augustine  could  hear  all  he 
said  and  gauge  how  deep  was  an  intimacy 
that  could  wear  such  lightness,  such 
slightness,  as  its  mask. 

Augustine,  meanwhile,  looked  at 
neither  his  mother  nor  Sir  Hugh.  Turned 
from  them  in  his  chair  he  put  out  his 
hand  for  his  tea  and  stared  before  him, 
as  if  unseeing  and  unhearing,  while  he 
drank  it. 

It  was  for  her  sake,  Amabel  knew,  that 
Sir  Hugh,  raising  his  voice  presently,  as 
though  aware  of  the  sullen  presence, 
made  a  little  effort  to  lift  the  gloom. 
"What  sort  of  a  time  have  you  had,  Au- 
gustine?" he  asked.  "Was  the  weather 
at  Haversham  as  bad  as  everywhere 
else?" 

179 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

Augustine  did  not  turn  his  head  in  re- 
plying:—"Quite  as  bad,  I  fancy." 

"You  and  young  Wallace  hammered 
at  metaphysics,  I  suppose." 

"We  did." 

"Nice  lad." 

To  this  Augustine  said  nothing. 

"They  're  such  a  solemn  lot,  the  youths 
of  this  generation,"  said  Sir  Hugh,  ad- 
dressing Amabel  as  well  as  Augustine: 
"In  my  day  we  never  bothered  ourselves 
much  about  things:  at  least  the  ones  I 
knew  did  n't.  Awfully  empty  and  frivo- 
lous. Augustine  and  his  friends  would 
have  thought  us.  Where  we  used  to  talk 
about  race  horses  they  talk  about  the  Ab- 
solute,—eh,  Augustine?  We  used  to  go 
and  hear  comic-operas  and  they  go  and 
hear  Brahms.  I  suppose  you  do  go  and 
hear  Brahms,  Augustine?" 

Augustine  maintained  his  silence  as 
though  not  conceiving  that  the  sportive 
question  required  an  answer  and  Amabel 
said  for  him  that  he  was  very  fond  of 
Brahms. 

180 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"Well,  I  must  be  off,"  said  Sir  Hugh. 
"I  hope  your  heart  will  ache  ever  so  little 
for  me,  Amabel,  when  you  think  of  the 
night  you  Ve  turned  me  out  into." 

"Oh— but — I  don't  turn,   you  out,"- 
she  stammered,  rising,  as,  in  a  gay  fare- 
well, he  looked  at  her. 

"No  ?  Well,  I  'm  only  teasing.  I  could 
hardly  have  managed  to  stay  this  time — 
though, — I  might  have  managed,  Ama- 
bel— .  I  '11  come  again  soon,  very  soon," 
said  Sir  Hugh. 

"No,"  her  hand  was  in  his  and  she 
knew  that  Augustine  had  turned  his  head 
and  was  looking  at  them: — "No,  dear 
Hugh.  Not  soon,  please.  I  will  write." 
Sir  Hugh  looked  at  her  smiling.  He 
glanced  at  Augustine;  then  back  at  her, 
rallying  her,  affectionately,  threateningly, 
determinedly,  for  her  foolish  feints.  He 
raised  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it. 
"Write,  if  you  want  to;  but  I  'm  coming," 
he  said.  He  nodded  to  Augustine  and 
left  the  room. 


181 


IX 


>T  was,  curiously  enough,  a  crip- 
pling awkwardness  and  em- 
barrassment that  Amabel  felt 
rather  than  fear  or  antagonism,  during 
that  evening  and  the  morning  that  fol- 
lowed. Augustine  had  left  the  room  di- 
rectly after  Sir  Hugh's  departure.  When 
she  saw  him  again  he  showed  her  a  face 
resolutely  mute.  It  was  impossible  to 
speak  to  him ;  to  explain.  The  main  facts 
he  must  see;  that  her  husband  was  mak- 
ing love  to  her  and  that,  however  deep 
her  love  for  him,  she  rejected  him. 

Augustine  might  believe  that  rejection 

to  be  for  his  own  sake,  might  believe  that 

she  renounced  love  and  sacrificed  herself 

from  a  maternal  sense  of  duty;  and,  in- 

182 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

deed,  the  impossibility  of  bringing  that 
love  into  her  life  with  Augustine  had  been 
the  clear  impossibility  that  had  flashed 
for  her  in  her  need;  she  had  seized  upon 
it  and  it  had  armed  her  in  her  reiterated 
refusal.  But  how  tell  Augustine  that 
there  had  been  more  than  the  clear  im- 
possibility; how  tell  him  that  deeper  than 
renouncement  was  recoil?  To  tell  that 
would  be  a  disloyalty  to  her  husband;  it 
would  be  almost  to  accuse  him;  it  would 
be  to  show  Augustine  that  something  in 
her  life  was  spoiled  and  that  her  husband 
had  spoiled  it.  So  perplexed,  so  jaded, 
was  she,  so  tossed  by  the  conflicting  cur- 
rents of  her  lesser  plight,  that  the  deeper 
fears  were  forgotten:  she  was  not  con- 
scious of  being  afraid  of  Augustine. 

The  rain  had  ceased  next  morning. 
The  sky  was  crystalline;  the  wet  earth 
glittered  in  Autumnal  sunshine. 

Augustine  went  out  for  his  ride  and 
Amabel  had  her  girls  to  read  with.  There 
was  a  sense  of  peace  for  her  in  finding 
these  threads  of  her  life  unknotted, 

183 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

smooth  and  simple,  lying  ready  to  her 
hand. 

When  she  saw  Augustine  at  lunch  he 
said  that  he  had  met  Lady  Elliston. 

"She  was  riding  with  Marjory  and  her 
girl." 

"Oh,  she  is  back,  then."  Amabel  was 
grateful  to  him  for  his  everyday  tone. 

"What  is  Lady  Elliston's  girl  like?" 

"Pretty;  very;  foolish  manners  I 
thought;  Marjory  looked  bewildered  by 
her." 

"The  manners  of  girls  have  changed, 
I  fancy,  since  my  day;  and  she  is  n't  a 
boy-girl,  like  our  nice  Marjory,  either?" 

"No;  she  is  a  girl-girl;  a  pretty,  for- 
ward, conceited  girl-girl,"  said  the  ruthless 
Augustine.  "Lady  Elliston  is  coming  to 
see  you  this  afternoon;  she  asked  me  to 
tell  you;  she  says  she  wants  a  long  talk." 

Amabel's  weary  heart  sank  at  the  news. 

"She  is  coming  soon  after  lunch,"  said 
Augustine. 

"Oh— dear— "  — .  She  could  not  con- 
ceal her  dismay. 

184 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"But  you  knew  that  you  were  to  see 
her  again; — do  you  mind  so  much?"  said 
Augustine. 

"I  don't  mind.— It  is  only;— I  have  got 
so  out  of  the  way  of  seeing  people  that  it 
is  something  of  a  strain." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  come  in  and 
interrupt  your  talk?"  asked  Augustine 
after  a  moment. 

She  looked  across  the  table  at  him. 
Still,  in  her  memory,  preoccupied  with 
the  cruelty  of  his  accusation,  it  was  the 
anger  rather  than  the  love  of  his  parting 
words  the  other  day  that  was  the  more 
real.  He  had  been  hard  in  kindness,  re- 
lentless in  judgment,  only  not  accusing 
her,  not  condemning  her,  because  his  con- 
demnation had  fixed  on  the  innocent  and 
not  on  the  guilty — the  horror  of  that,  as 
well  as  the  other  horror,  was  between 
them  now,  and  her  guilt  was  deepened 
by  it.  But,  as  she  looked,  his  eyes  re- 
minded her  of  something;  was  it  of  that 
fancied  cry  within  the  church,  imprisoned 
and  supplicating?  They  were  like  that 

185 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

cry  of  pain,  those  eyes,  the  dark  rims  of 
the  iris  strangely  expanding,  and  her 
heart  answered  them,  ignorant  of  what 
they  said. 

"You  are  thoughtful  for  me,  dear;  but 
no,"  she  replied,  "it  is  n't  necessary  for 
you  to  interrupt." 

He  looked  away  from  her:  "I  don't 
know  that  it  's  not  necessary,"  he  said. 
After  lunch  they  went  into  the  garden 
and  walked  for  a  little  in  the  sunlight,  in 
almost  perfect  silence.  Once  or  twice,  as 
though  from  the  very  pressure  of  his  ab- 
sorption in  her  he  created  some  intention 
of  speech  and  fancied  that  her  lips  had 
parted  with  the  words,  Augustine  turned 
his  head  quickly  towards  her,  and  at  this, 
their  eyes  meeting,  as  it  were  over  empti- 
ness, both  he  and  she  would  flush  and 
look  away  again.  The  stress  between 
them  was  painful.  She  was  glad  when 
he  said  that  he  had  work  to  do  and  left 
her  alone. 

Amabel  went  to  the  drawing-room  and 
took  her  chair  near  the  table.  A  sense  of 
1 86 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

solitude  deeper  than  she  had  known  for 
years  pressed  upon  her.  She  closed  her 
eyes  and  leaned  back  her  head,  thinking, 
dimly,  that  now,  in  such  solitude  as  this, 
she  must  find  her  way  to  prayer  again. 
But  still  the  door  was  closed.  It  was  as 
if  she  could  not  enter  without  a  human 
hand  in  hers.  Augustine's  hand  had 
never  led  her  in;  and  she  could  not  take 
her  husband's  now. 

But  her  longing  itself  became  almost  a 
prayer  as  she  sat  with  closed  eyes.  This 
would  pass,  this  cloud  of  her  husband's 
lesser  love.  When  he  knew  her  so  un- 
alterably firm,  when  he  saw  how  inflexibly 
the  old  love  shut  out  the  new,  he  would, 
once  more,  be  her  friend.  Then,  feeling 
him  near  again,  she  might  find  peace. 
The  thought  of  it  was  almost  peace.  Even 
in  the  midst  of  yesterday's  bewildered 
pain  she  had  caught  glimpses  of  the  old 
beauty;  his  kindly  speech  to  Augustine, 
his  making  of  ease  for  her;  gratitude 
welled  up  in  her  and  she  sighed  with  the 
relief  of  her  deep  hope.  To  feel  this 

is/ 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

gratitude  was  to  see  still  further  beyond 
the  cloud.  It  was  even  beautiful  for  him 
to  be  able  to  "fall  in  love"  with  her — as 
he  had  put  it:  that  the  manifestations  of 
his  love  should  have  made  her  shrink 
was  not  his  fault  but  hers ;  she  was  a  nun ; 
because  she  had  been  a  sinner.  She  al- 
most smiled  now,  in  seeing  so  clearly  that 
it  was  on  her  the  shadow  rested.  She 
could  not  be  at  peace,  she  could  not  pray, 
she  could  not  live,  it  seemed  to  her,  if  he 
were  really  shadowed.  And  after  the 
smile  it  was  almost  with  the  sense  of  dew 
falling  upon  her  soul  that  she  remembered 
the  kindness,  the  chivalrous  protection 
that  had  encompassed  her  through  the 
long  years.  He  was  her  friend,  her 
knight;  she  would  forget,  and  he,  too, 
would  forget  that  he  had  thought  himself 
her  lover. 

She  did  not  know  how  tired  she  was, 
but  her  exhaustion  must  have  been  great, 
for  the  thoughts  faded  into  a  vague  sweet- 
ness, then  were  gone,  and,  suddenly  open- 
ing her  eyes,  she  knew  that  she  had  fallen 
188 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

asleep,  sitting  straightly  in  her  chair,  and 
that  Lady  Elliston  was  looking  at  her. 

She  started  up,  smiling  and  confused. 
"How  absurd  of  me: — I  have  been  sleep- 
ing.—Have  you  just  come?" 

Lady  Elliston  did  not  smile  and  was 
silent.  She  took  Amabel's  hand  and 
looked  at  her;  she  had  to  recover  herself 
from  something;  it  may  have  been  the 
sleeping  face,  wasted  and  innocent,  that 
had  touched  her  too  deeply.  And  her  grav- 
ity, as  of  repressed  tears,  frightened 
Amabel.  She  had  never  seen  Lady  Ellis- 
ton  look  so  grave.  "Is  anything  the  mat- 
ter?" she  asked.  For  a  moment  longer 
Lady  Elliston  was  silent,  as  though  re- 
flecting. Then  releasing  Amabel's  hand, 
she  said:  "Yes:  I  think  something  is  the 
matter." 

"You  have  come  to  tell  me?" 

"I  did  n't  come  for  that.  Sit  down/ 
Amabel.  You  are  very  tired,  more  tired 
than  the  other  day.  I  have  been  looking 
at  you  for  a  long  time. — I  did  n't  come 
to  tell  you  anything;  but  now,  perhaps,  I 

189 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

shall   have    something   to    tell.      I  must 
think." 

She  took  a  chair  beside  the  table  and 
leaned  her  head  on  her  hand  shading  her 
eyes.  Amabel  had  obeyed  her  and  sat 
looking  at  her  guest. 

"Tell  me,"  Lady  Elliston  said  abruptly, 
and  Amabel  today,  more  than  of  sweet- 
ness and  softness,  was  conscious  of  her 
strength,  "have  you  been  having  a  bad 
time  since  I  saw  you  ?  Has  anything  hap- 
pened? Has  anything  come  between  you 
and  Augustine  ?  I  saw  him  this  morning, 
and  he  's  been  suffering,  too:  I  guessed 
it.  You  must  be  frank  with  me,  Amabel ; 
you  must  trust  me :  perhaps  I  am  going  to 
be  franker  with  you,  to  trust  you  more, 
than  you  can  dream." 

She  inspired  the  confidence  her  words 
laid  claim  to;  for  the  first  time  in  their 
lives  Amabel  trusted  her  unreservedly. 

"I  have  had  a  very  bad  time,"  she  said : 
"And   Augustine  has   had   a   bad   time. 
Yes ;  something  has  come  between  Augus- 
tine and  me, — many  things." 
190 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"He  hates  Hugh,"  said  Lady  Elliston. 

"How  can  you  know  that?" 

"I  guessed  it.  He  is  a  clever  boy:  he 
sees  you  absorbed;  he  sees  your  devotion 
robbing  him;  perhaps  he  sees  even  more, 
Amabel ;  I  heard  this  morning,  from  Mrs. 
Grey,  that  Hugh  had  been  with  you, 
again,  yesterday.  Amabel,  is  it  possible; 
has  Hugh  been  making  love  to  you?" 

Amabel  had  become  very  pale.  Look- 
ing down,  she  said  in  a  hardly  audible 
voice:  "It  is  a  mistake. — He  will  see  that 
it  is  impossible." 

Lady  Elliston  for  a  moment  was  silent : 
the  confirming  of  her  own  suspicion 
seemed  to  have  stupefied  her.  "Is  it  im- 
possible?" she  then  asked. 

"Quite,  quite  impossible." 

"Does  Hugh  know  that  it  is  impossi- 
ble?" 

"He  will. — Yesterday,  Augustine  came 
in  while  he  was  here; — I  could  not  say 
any  more." 

"I  see:  I  see":  said  Lady  Elliston.  Her 
hand  fell  to  the  table  now  and  she  slightly 
191 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

tapped  her  finger-tips  upon  it.  There  was 
an  ominous  rhythm  in  the  little  raps. 
"And  this  adds  to  Augustine's  hatred," 
she  said. 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  true.  I  am  afraid  he 
does  hate  him,  and  how  terrible  that  is," 
said  Amabel,  "for  he  believes  him  to  be 
his  father." 

"By  instinct  he  must  feel  the  tie  un- 
real." 

"Yet  he  has  had  a  father's  kindness, 
almost,  from  Hugh." 

"Almost.  It  is  n't  enough  you  know. 
He  suspects  nothing,  you  think?" 

"It  is  that  that  is  so  terrible.  He 
does  n't  suspect  me :  he  suspects  him.  He 
could  n't  suspect  evil  of  me.  It  is  my 
guilt,  and  his  ignorant  hatred  that  is  part- 
ing us."  Amabel  was  trembling;  she 
leaned  forward  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands. 

The  very  air  about  her  seemed  to  trem- 
ble ;  so.  strange,  so  incredibly  strange  was 
it  to  hear  her  own  words  of  helpless 
avowal;  so  strange  to  feel  that  she 
192 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

must  tell  Lady  Elliston  all  she  wished  to 
know. 

"Parting  you?  What  do  you  mean? 
What  folly! — what  impossible  folly!  A 
mother  and  a  son,  loving  each  other  as 
you  and  Augustine  love,  parted  for  that. 
Oh,  no,"  said  Lady  Elliston,  and  her  own 
voice  shook  a  little:  "that  can't  be.  I 
won't  have  that." 

"He  would  not  love  me,  if  he  knew." 

"Knew?  What  is  there  for  him  to 
know?  And  how  should  he  know?  You 
won't  be  so  mad  as  to  tell  him  ?" 

"It 's  my  punishment  not  to  dare  to  tell 
him — and  to  see  my  cowardice  cast  a 
shadow  on  Hugh." 

"Punishment?  have  n't  you  been  pun- 
ished enough,  good  heavens !  Cowardice  ? 
it  is  reason,  maturity;  the  child  has  no 
right  to  your  secret— it  is  yours  and  only 
yours,  Amabel.  And  if  he  did  know  all, 
he  could  not  judge  you  as  you  judge  your- 
self." 

"Ah,  you  don't  understand,"  Amabel 
murmured:  "I  had  forgotten  to  judge 

193 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

myself;  I  had  forgotten  my  sin;  it  was 
Augustine  who  made  me  remember ;  I  know 
now  what  he  feels  about  people  like  me/' 
Again  Lady  Elliston  controlled  herself 
to  a  momentary  silence  and  again  her 
fingers  sharply  beat  out  her  uncontrollable 
impatience.  "I  live  in  a  world,  Amabel," 
she  said  at  last,  "where  people  when  they 
use  the  word  'sin,'  in  that  connection, 
know  that  it 's  obsolete,  a  mere  decorative 
symbol  for  unconventionality.  In  my 
world  we  don't  have  your  cloistered  black 
and  white  view  of  life  nor  see  sin  where 
only  youth  and  trust  and  impulse  were. 
If  one  takes  risks,  one  may  have  to  pay 
for  them,  of  course;  one  plays  the  game, 
if  one  is  in  the  ring,  and,  of  course,  you 
may  be  put  out  of  the  ring  if  you  break 
the  rules;  but  the  rules  are  those  of  wis- 
dom, not  of  morality,  and  the  rule  that 
heads  the  list  is :  Don't  be  found  out.  To 
imagine  that  the  rules  are  anything  more 
than  matters  of  social  convenience  is  to 
dignify  the  foolish  game.  It  is  a  foolish 
game,  Amabel,  this  of  life :  but  one  or  two 
194 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

things  in  it  are  worth  having;  power  to 
direct  the  game;  freedom  to  break  its 
rules;  and  love,  passionate  love,  between 
a  man  and  woman:  and  if  one  is  strong 
enough  one  can  have  them  all." 

Lady  Elliston  had  again  put  her  hand 
to  her  brow,  shielding  her  eyes  and  leaning 
her  elbow  on  the  table,  and  Amabel  had 
raised  her  head  and  sat  still,  gazing  at  her. 

"You  were  n't  strong  enough,"  Lady 
Elliston  went  on  after  a  little  pause :  "You 
made  frightful  mistakes:  the  greatest,  of 
course,  was  in  running  away  with  Paul 
Quentin:  that  was  foolish,  and  it  was, 
if  you  like  to  call  foolishness  by  its  obso- 
lete name,  a  sin.  You  should  n't  have 
gone :  you  should  have  stayed :  you  should 
have  kept  your  lover — as  long  as  you 
wanted  to." 

Again  she  paused.   "Do  I  horrify  you?" 

"No:  you  don't  horrify  me,"  Amabel 
replied.  Her  voice  was  gentle,  almost 
musing;  she  was  absorbed  in  her  con- 
templation. 

"You  see,"   said  Lady  Elliston,   "you 

195 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

did  n't  play  the  game:  you  made  a  mess 
of  things  and  put  the  other  players  out. 
If  you  had  stayed,  and  kept  your  lover, 
you  would  have  been,  in  my  eyes,  a  less 
loveable  but  a  wiser  woman.  I  believe  in 
the  game  being  kept  up;  I  believe  m  the 
social  structure :  I  am  one  of  its  accredited 
upholders";  in  the  shadow  of  her  hand, 
Lady  Elliston  slightly  smiled.  "I  believe 
in  the  family,  the  group  of  shared  inter- 
ests, shared  responsibilities,  shared  op- 
portunities it  means:  I  don't  care  how 
many  lovers  a  woman  has  if  she  does  n't 
break  up  the  family,  if  she  plays  the  game. 
Marriage  is  a  social  compact  and  it  's  the 
woman's  part  to  keep  the  home  together. 
If  she  seeks  love  outside  marriage  she 
must  play  fair,  she  must  n't  be  an  em- 
bezzling partner;  she  must  n't  give  her 
husband  another  man's  children  to  sup- 
port and  so  take  away  from  his  own  chil- 
dren;— that 's  thieving.  The  social  struc- 
ture, the  family,  are  unharmed,  if  one  is 
brave  and  wise.  Love  and  marriage  can 
rarely  be  combined  and  to  renounce  love 
196 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

is  to  cripple  one's  life,  to  miss  the  best 
thing  it  has  to  give.  You,  at  all  events, 
Amabel,  may  be  glad  that  you  have  n't 
missed  it.  What,  after  all,  does  our  life 
mean  but  just  that,— the  power  and  feel- 
ing that  one  gets  into  it.  Be  glad  that 
you  Ve  had  something." 

Amabel,  answering  nothing,  contem- 
plated her  guest. 

"So,  as  these  are  my  views,  imagine 
what  I  feel  when  I  find  you  here,  like 
this";  Lady  Elliston  dropped  her  hand 
at  last  and  looked  about  her,  not  at  Ama- 
bel: "when  I  find  you,  in  prison,  locked 
up  for  life,  by  yourself,  because  you  were 
lovably  unwise.  It  's  abominable,  it  's 
shameful,  your  position,  isolated  here, 
and  tolerated,  looked  askance  at  by 
these  nobodies.— Ah— I  don't  say  that 
other  women  have  n't  paid  even  more 
heavily  than  you  Ve  done;  I  own  that,  to 
a  certain  extent,  you  've  escaped  the 
rigours  that  the  game  exacts  from  its 
victims.  But  there  was  no  reason  why 
you  should  pay  anything:  it  was  n't 
197 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

known,  never  really  known — your  brother 
and  Hugh  saw  to  that;— you  could  have 
escaped  scot-free." 

Amabel  spoke  at  last:  "How,  scot- 
free?"  she  asked. 

Lady  Elliston  looked  hard  at  her: 
"Your  husband  would  have  taken  you 
back,  had  you  insisted.— You  should  n't 
have  fallen  in  with  his  plans." 

"His  plans?  They  were  mine;  my 
brother's." 

"And  his.  Hugh  was  glad  to  be  rid  of 
the  young  wife  he  did  n't  love." 

Again  Amabel  was  trembling.  "He 
might  have  been  rid  of  her,  altogether  rid 
of  her,  if  he  had  cared  more  for  power 
and  freedom  than  for  pity." 

"Power?  With  not  nearly  enough 
money?  He  was  glad  to  keep  her  money 
and  be  rid  of  her.  If  you  had  pulled  the 
purse-strings  tight  you  might  have  made 
your  own  conditions." 

"I  do  not  believe  you,"  said  Amabel; 
"What  you  say  is  not  true.  My  husband 
is  noble." 

198 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

Lady  Elliston  looked  at  her  steadily  and 
unflinchingly.  "He  is  not  noble,"  she  said. 

"What  have  you  meant  by  coming  here 
today?  You  have  meant  something!  I 
will  not  listen  to  you!  You  are  my  hus- 
band's enemy;" — Amabel  half  started 
from  her  chair,  but  Lady  Elliston  laid  her 
hand  on  her  arm,  looking  at  her  so  fixedly 
that  she  sank  down  again,  panic-stricken. 

"He  is  not  noble,"  Lady  Elliston  re- 
peated. "I  will  not  have  you  waste  your 
love  as  you  have  wasted  your  life.  I  will 
not  have  this  illusion  of  his  nobility  come 
between  you  and  your  son.  I  will  not 
have  him  come  near  you  with  his  love. 
He  is  not  noble,  he  is  not  generous,  he  is 
not  beautiful.  He  could  not  have  got 
rid  of  you.  And  he  came  to  you  with  his 
love  yesterday  because  his  last  mistress 
has  thrown  him  over — and  he  must  have 
a  mistress.  I  know  him:  I  know  all  about 
him :  and  you  don't  know  him  at  all.  Your 
husband  was  my  lover  for  over  twenty 
years." 

A  long  silence  followed  her  words.  It 
199 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

was  again  a  strange  picture  of  arrested 
life  in  the  dark  room.  The  light  fell 
quietly  upon  the  two  faces,  their  stillness, 
their  contemplation — it  seemed  hardly 
more  intent  than  contemplation,  that 
drinking  gaze  of  Amabel's;  the  draught 
of  wonder  was  too  deep  for  pain  or  pas- 
sion, and  Lady  Elliston's  eyes  yielded, 
offered,  held  firm  the  cup  the  other  drank. 
And  the  silence  grew  so  long  that  it  was 
as  if  the  twenty  years  flowed  by  while 
they  gazed  upon  each  other. 

It  was  Lady  Elliston's  face  that  first 
showed  change.  She  might  have  been  the 
cup-bearer  tossing  aside  the  emptied  cup, 
seeing  in  the  slow  dilation  of  the  vic- 
tim's eyes,  the  constriction  of  lips  and 
nostrils,  that  it  had  held  poison.  All — 
all  had  been  drunk  to  the  last  drop. 
Death  seemed  to  gaze  from  the  dilated 
eyes. 

"Oh— my  poor  Amabel — "  Lady  Ellis- 
ton  murmured ;  her  face  was  stricken  with 
pity. 

Amabel  spoke  in  the  cramped  voice  of 
200 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

mortal  anguish. — "Before  he  married 
me." 

"Yes,"  Lady  Elliston  nodded,  pitiful, 
but  unflinching.  "He  married  you  for 
your  money,  and  because  you  were  a 
sweet,  good,  simple  child  who  would  not 
interfere." 

"And  he  could  not  have  divorced  me, 
because  of  you." 

"Because  of  me.  You  know  the  law; 
one  guilty  person  can't  divorce  another. 
No  one  knew :  no  one  has  ever  known :  he 
and  Jack  have  remained  the  best  of 
friends: — but,  of  course,  with  all  our 
care,  it  's  been  suspected,  whispered.  If 
I  'd  been  less  powerful  the  whispers  might 
have  blighted  me:  as  it  was,  we  thought 
that  Bertram  was  n't  altogether  unsus- 
pecting. Hugh  knew  that  it  would  be 
fatal  to  bring  the  matter  into  court; — I 
will  say  for  Hugh  that,  in  spite  of  the 
money,  he  wanted  to.  He  could  have 
married  money  again.  He  has  always 
been  extremely  captivating.  When  he 
found  that  he  would  have  to  keep  you,  the 
20 1 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

money,  of  course,  did  atone.  I  suppose 
he  has  had  most  of  your  money  by  now," 
said  Lady  Elliston. 

Amabel  shut  her  eyes.  "Was  n't  he 
even  sorry  for  me?"  she  asked. 

Lady  Elliston  reflected  and  a  glitter 
was  in  her  eye;  vengeance  as  well  as  jus- 
tice armed  her.  "He  is  not  unkind,"  she 
conceded:  "and  he  was  sorry  after  a 
fashion:  'Poor  little  girl,'  I  remember  he 
said.  Yes,  he  was  very  tolerant.  But  he 
did  n't  think  of  you  at  all,  unless  he  wanted 
money.  He  is  always  graceful  in  his 
direct  relations  with  people;  he  is  tactful 
and  sympathetic  and  likes  things  to  be 
pleasant.  But  he  does  n't  mind  breaking 
your  heart  if  he  does  n't  have  to  see  you 
while  he  is  doing  it.  He  is  kind,  but  he 
is  as  hard  as  steel,"  said  Lady  Elliston. 

"Then  you  do  not  love  him  any  longer," 
said  Amabel.  It  was  not  a  question,  only 
a  farther  acceptance. 

And  now,  after  only  the  slightest  pause, 
Lady  Elliston  proved  how  deep,  how  un- 
flinching was  her  courage.  She  had 
202 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

guarded  her  illicit  passion  all  her  life; 
she  revealed  it  now.  "I  do  love  him,"  she 
said.  "I  have  never  loved  another  man. 
It  is  he  who  does  n't  love  me." 

From  the  black  depths  where  she 
seemed  to  swoon  and  float,  like  a  drowsy, 
drowning  thing,  the  hard  note  of  misery 
struck  on  Amabel's  ear.  She  opened  her 
eyes  and  looked  at  Lady  Elliston.  Power, 
freedom,  passion:  it  was  not  these  that 
looked  back  at  her  from  the  bereft  and 
haggard  eyes.  "After  twenty  years  he 
has  grown  tired,"  Lady  Elliston  said ;  and 
her  candour  seemed  as  inevitable  as  Ama- 
bel's had  been:  each  must  tell  the  other 
everything;  a  common  bond  of  suffering 
was  between  them  and  a  common  bond  of 
love,  though  love  so  differing.  "I  knew, 
of  course,  that  he  was  often  unfaithful  to 
me ;  he  is  a  libertine ;  but  I  was  the  centre ; 
he  always  came  back  to  me. — I  saw  the 
end  approaching  about  five  years  ago.  I 
fought — oh  how  warily— so  that  he  should 
n't  dream  I  was  afraid; — it  is  fatal  for 
a  woman  to  let  a  man  know  she  is  afraid, — 
203 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

the  brutes,  the  cruel  brutes," — said  Lady 
Elliston; — "how  we  love  them  for  their 
fear  and  pleading;  how  our  fear  and 
pleading  hardens  them  against  us."  Her 
lips  trembled  and  the  tears  ran  down  her 
cheeks.  "I  never  pleaded ;  I  never  showed 
that  I  saw  the  change.  I  kept  him,  for 
years,  by  my  skill.  But  the  odds  were  too 
great  at  last.  It  was  a  year  ago  that  he 
told  me  he  did  n't  care  any  more.  He  was 
troubled,  a  little  embarrassed,  but  quite 
determined  that  I  should  n't  bother  him. 
Since  then  it  has  been  another  woman.  I 
know  her;  I  meet  her  everywhere;  very 
beautiful;  very  young;  only  married  for 
three  years;  a  heartless,  rapacious  crea- 
ture. Hugh  has  nearly  ruined  himself  in 
paying  her  jeweller's  bills  and  her  debts 
at  bridge.  And  already  she  has  thrown 
him  over.  It  happened  only  the  other 
day.  I  knew  it  was  happening  when  I 
saw  him  here.  I  was  glad,  Amabel;  I 
longed  for  him  to  suffer;  and  he  will.  He 
is  a  libertine  of  most  fastidious  tastes 
and  he  will  not  find  many  more  young 
204 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

and  beautiful  women,  of  his  world,  to  run 
risks  for  him.  He,  too,  is  getting  old. 
And  he  has  gone  through  nearly  all  his 
own  money — and  yours.  Things  wilt 
soon  be  over  for  him. — Oh — but — I  love 
him — I  love  him— and  everything  is  over 
for  me.  —  How  can  I  bear  it!" 

She  bent  forward  on  her  knees  and  con- 
vulsive sobs  shook  her. 

Her  words  seemed  to  Amabel  to  come 
to  her  from  a  far  distance ;  they  echoed  in 
her,  yet  they  were  not  the  words  she  could 
have  used.  How  dim  was  her  own  love- 
dream  beside  this  torment  of  disposses- 
sion. What — who — had  she  loved  for  all 
these  years?  She  could  not  touch  or  see 
her  own  grief;  but  Lady  Elliston's  grief 
pierced  through  her.  She  leaned  towards 
her  and  softly  touched  her  shoulder,  her 
arm,  her  hand;  she  held  the  hand  in  hers. 
The  sight  of  this  loss  of  strength  and  dig- 
nity was  an  actual  pain ;  her  own  pain  was 
something  elusive  and  unsubstantial;  it 
wandered  like  a  ghost  vainly  seeking  an 
embodiment. 

205 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"Oh,  you  angel— you  poor  angel!" 
moaned  Lady  Elliston.  "There:  that  's 
enough  of  crying;  it  can't  bring  back  my 
youth. — What  a  fool  I  am.  If  only  I  could 
learn  to  think  of  myself  as  free  instead 
of  maimed  and  left  by  the  wayside.  It 
is  hard  to  live  without  love  if  one  has 
always  had  it.  —  But  I  have  freed  you, 
Amabel.  I  am  glad  of  that.  It  has  been 
a  cruel,  but  a  right  thing  to  do.  He  shall 
not  come  to  you  with  his  shameless  love; 
he  shall  not  come  between  you  and  your 
boy.  You  shan't  misplace  your  worship 
so.  It  is  Augustine  who  is  beautiful  and 
noble ;  it  is  Augustine  who  loves  you.  You 
are  n't  maimed  and  forsaken;  thank 
heaven  for  that,  dear." 

Lady  Elliston  had  risen.  Strong  again, 
she  faced  her  life,  took  up  the  reins,  not 
a  trace  of  scruple  or  of  shame  about  her. 
It  did  not  enter  her  mind  to  ask  Amabel 
for  forgiveness,  to  ask  if  she  were  de- 
spised or  shrunk  from:  it  did  not  enter 
Amabel's  mind  to  wonder  at  the  omission. 
She  looked  up  at  her  guest  and  her  lifted 
206 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

face  seemed  that  of  the  drowned  creature 
floating  to  the  surface  of  the  water. 

"Tell  me,  Amabel,"  Lady  Elliston  sud- 
denly pleaded,  "this  is  not  going  to 
blacken  things  for  you;  you  won't  let  it 
blacken  things.  You  will  live;  you  will 
leave  your  prison  and  come  out  into  the 
world,  with  your  splendid  boy,  and  live." 

Amabel  slightly  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  why  do  you  say  that  ?  Has  it  hurt 
so  horribly?" 

Amabel  seemed  to  make  the  effort  to 
think  what  it  had  done.  She  did  not 
know.  The  ghost  wailed;  but  she  could 
not  see  its  form. 

"Did  you  care — so  tremendously — about 
him?" — Lady  Elliston  asked,  and  her 
voice  trembled.  And,  for  answer,  the 
drowned  eyes  looked  up  at  her  through 
strange,  cold  tears. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,"  Lady  Elliston 
murmured.  Her  hand  was  still  in  Ama- 
bel's and  she  stood  there  beside  her,  her 
hand  so  held,  for  a  long,  silent  moment. 
^  had  looked  away  from  each  other. 
207 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

And  in  the  silence  each  knew  that  it  was 
the  end  and  that  they  would  see  each  other 
no  more.  They  lived  in  different  planets, 
under  different  laws;  they  could  under- 
stand, they  could  trust ;  but  a  deep,  trans- 
parent chasm,  like  that  of  the  ether 
flowing  between  two  divided  worlds, 
made  them  immeasurably  apart. 

Yet,  when  she  at  last  gently  released 
Amabel's  hand,  drawing  her  own  away, 
Lady  Elliston  said:  "But,— won't  you 
come  out  now?" 

"Out?  Where?"  Amabel  asked,  in  the 
voice  of  that  far  distance. 

"Into  the  world,  the  great,  splendid 
world." 

"Splendid?" 

"Splendid,  if  you  choose  to  seize  it  and 
take  what  it  has  to  give." 

After  a  moment  Amabel  asked:  "Has 
it  given  you  so  much?" 

Lady  Elliston  looked  at  her  from  across 
the  chasm;  it  was  not  dark,  it  held  no 
precipices;  it  was  made  up  only  of  dis- 
tance. Lady  Elliston  saw;  but  she  was 
208 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

loyal  to  her  own  world.  "Yes,  it  has,"  she 
said.  "I  Ve  lived ;  you  have  dreamed  your 
life  away.  You  have  n't  even  a  reality  to 
mourn  the  loss  of." 

"No,"  Amabel  said;  she  closed  her  eyes 
and  turned  her  head  away  against  the 
chair;  "No;  I  have  lived  too.  Don't  pity 


me." 


20Q 


X 


»T  was  past  five  when  Augustine 
came  into  the  empty  drawing- 
room.  Tea  was  standing  wait- 
ing, and  had  been  there,  he  saw,  for  some 
time.  He  rang  and  asked  the  maid  to  tell 
Lady  Channice.  Lady  Channice,  he 
heard,  was  lying  down  and  wanted  no  tea. 
Lady  Elliston  had  gone  half  an  hour  be- 
fore. After  a  moment  or  two  of  delibera- 
tion, Augustine  sat  down  and  made  tea 
for  himself.  That  was  soon  over.  He 
ate  nothing,  looking  with  a  vague  gaze  of 
repudiation  at  the  plate  of  bread  and  but- 
ter and  the  cooling  scones. 

When  tea  had  been  taken  away  he 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  quickly, 
pausing  now  and  then  for  further  deliber- 
ation. But  he  decided  that  he  would  not 
go  up  to  his  mother.  He  went  on  walking 
210 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

for  a  long  time.  Then  he  took  a  book  and 
read  until  the  dressing-bell  for  dinner 
rang. 

When  he  went  upstairs  to  dress  he 
paused  outside  his  mother's  door,  as  she 
had  paused  outside  his,  and  listened.  He 
heard  no  sound.  He  stood  still  there  for 
some  moments  before  lightly  rapping  on 
the  door.  "Who  is  it?"  came  his  mother's 
voice.  "I;  Augustine.  How  are  you? 
You  are  coming  down  ?" 

"Not  tonight,"  she  answered;  "I  have 
a  very  bad  headache." 

"But  let  me  have  something  sent  up." 
After  a  moment  his  mother's  voice  said 
very  sweetly;  "Of  course,  dear."  And  she 
added  "I  shall  be  all  right  tomorrow." 

The  voice  sounded  natural — yet  not 
quite  natural;  too  natural,  perhaps,  Au- 
gustine reflected.  Its  tone  remained  with 
him  as  something  disturbing  and  pro- 
longed itself  in  memory  like  a  familiar 
note  strung  to  a  queer,  forced  pitch,  that 
vibrated  on  and  on  until  it  hurt. 

After  his  solitary  meal  he  took  up  his 
211 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

book  again  in  the  drawing-room.  He 
read  with  effort  and  concentration,  his 
brows  knotted;  his  young  face,  thus  con- 
trolled to  stern  attention,  was  at  once  vigi- 
lant for  outer  impressions  and  absorbed  in 
the  inner  interest.  Once  or  twice  he  looked 
up,  as  a  coal  fell  with  a  soft  crash  from 
the  fire,  as  a  thin  creeper  tapped  sharply 
on  the  window  pane.  His  mother's  room 
was  above  the  drawing-room  and  while 
he  read  he  was  listening;  but  he  heard  no 
footsteps. 

Suddenly,  dim,  yet  clear,  came  another 
sound,  a  sound  familiar,  though  so  rare; 
wheels  grinding  on  the  gravel  drive  at 
the  other  side  of  the  house.  Then,  loud 
and  startling  at  that  unaccustomed  hour, 
the  old  hall  bell  clanged  through  the  house. 

Augustine  found  himself  leaning  for- 
ward, breathing  quickly,  his  book  half- 
closed.  At  first  he  did  not  know  what  he 
was  listening  for  or  why  his  body  should 
be  tingling  with  excitement  and  anger. 
He  knew  a  moment  later.  There  was  a 
212 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

step  in  the  hall,  a  voice.  All  his  life  Au- 
gustine had  known  them,  had  waited  for 
them,  had  hated  them.  Sir  Hugh  was 
back  again. 

Of  course  he  was  back  again,  soon, — 
as  he  had  promised  in  the  tone  of  mastery. 
But  his  mother  had  told  him  not  to  come ; 
she  had  told  him  not  to  come,  and  in  a 
tone  that  meant  more  than  his.  Did  he 
not  know?— Did  he  not  understand? 

"No,  dear  Hugh,  not  soon. — I  will 
write." — Augustine  sprang  to  his  feet  as 
he  entered  the  room. 

Sir  Hugh  had  been  told  that  he  would 
not  find  his  wife.  His  face  wore  its  usual 
look  of  good-temper,  but  it  wore  more 
than  its  usual  look  of  indifference  for  his 
wife's  son.  "Ah,  tell  Lady  Channice,  will 
you,"  he  said  over  his  shoulder  to  the 
maid.  "How  d'  ye  do,  Augustine:"  and, 
as  usual,  he  strolled  up  to  the  fire. 

Augustine  watched  him  as  he  crossed 
the  room  and  said  nothing.  The  maid  had 
closed  the  door.  From  his  wonted  place 
213 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

Sir  Hugh  surveyed  the  young  man  and 
Augustine  surveyed  him. 

"You  know,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Sir 
Hugh  presently,  lifting  the  sole  of  his  boot 
to  the  fire,  "  you  Ve  got  devilish  bad  man- 
ners. You  are  devilishly  impertinent,  I 
may  tell  you." 

Augustine  received  the  reproof  without 
comment. 

"You  seem  to  imagine,"  Sir  Hugh  went 
on,  "that  you  have  some  particular  right 
to  bad  manners  and  impertinence  here, 
in  this  house;  but  you  're  mistaken;  I  be- 
long here  as  well  as  you  do;  and  you  '11 
have  to  accept  the  fact." 

A  convulsive  trembling,  like  his 
mother's,  passed  over  the  young  man's 
face;  but  whereas  only  Amabel's  hands 
and  body  trembled,  it  was  the  muscles  of 
Augustine's  lips,  nostrils  and  brows  that 
were  affected,  and  to  see  the  strength  of  his 
face  so  shaken  was  disconcerting,  painful. 

"You  don't  belong  here  while  I  'm 
here,"  he  said,  jerking  the  words  out  sud- 
denly. "This  is  my  mother's  home— and 
214 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

mine;— but  as  soon  as  you  make  it  insuf- 
ferable for  us  we  can  leave  it." 

"You  can ;  that 's  quite  true,"  Sir  Hugh 
nodded. 

Augustine  stood  clenching  his  hands 
on  his  book.  Now,  unconscious  of  what 
he  did,  he  grasped  the  leaves  and  wrenched 
them  back  and  forth  as  he  stood  silent, 
helpless,  desperate,  before  the  other's  in- 
timation. Sir  Hugh  watched  the  uncon- 
scious violence  with  interest. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on  presently,  and  still 
with  good  temper;  "if  you  make  yourself 
insufferable — to  your  mother  and  me — 
you  can  go.  Not  that  I  want  to  turn  you 
out.  It  rests  with  you.  Only,  you  must 
see  that  you  behave.  I  won't  have  you 
making  her  wretched." 

Augustine  glanced  dangerously  at  him. 

"Your  mother  and  I  have  come  to  an 
understanding — after  a  great  many  years 
of  misunderstanding,"  said  Sir  Hugh, 
putting  up  the  other  sole.  "I  'm — very 
fond  of  your  mother, — and  she  is, — very 
fond  of  me." 

215 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"She  does  n't  know  you,"  said  Augus- 
tine, who  had  become  livid  while  the  other 
made  his  gracefully  hesitant  statement. 

"Does  n't  know  me?"  Sir  Hugh  lifted 
his  brows  in  amused  inquiry;  "My  dear 
boy,  what  do  you  know  about  that,  pray? 
You  are  not  in  all  your  mother's  secrets." 

Augustine  was  again  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  he  strove  for  self-mastery.  "If 
I  am  not  in  my  mother's  secrets,"  he  said, 
"she  is  not  in  yours.  She  does  not  know 
you.  She  does  n't  know  what  sort  of  a 
man  you  are.  You  have  deceived  her. 
You  have  made  her  think  that  you  are  re- 
formed and  that  the  things  in  your  life 
that  made  her  leave  you  won't  come  again. 
But  whether  you  are  reformed  or  not  a 
man  like  you  has  no  right  to  come  near 
a  woman  like  my  mother.  I  know  that 
you  are  an  evil  man,"  said  Augustine,  his 
face  trembling  more  and  more  uncontroll- 
ably; "And  my  mother  is  a  saint." 

Sir   Hugh   stared   at  him.     Then   he 
burst  into  a  shout  of  laughter.     "You 
young  fool !"  he  said. 
216 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

Augustine's  eyes  were  lightnings  in  a 
storm-swept  sky. 

"You  young  fool,"  Sir  Hugh  repeated, 
not  laughing,  a  heavier  stress  weighting 
each  repeated  word. 

"Can  you  deny,"  said  Augustine,  "that 
you  have  always  led  a  dissolute  life?  If 
you  do  deny  it  it  won't  help  you.  I  know 
it :  and  I  Ve  not  needed  the  echoes  to  tell 
me.  I  Ve  always  felt  it  in  you.  I  Ve  al- 
ways known  you  were  evil." 

"What  if  I  don't  deny  it?"  Sir  Hugh  in- 
quired. 

Augustine  was  silent,  biting  his  quiver- 
ing lips. 

"What  if  I  don't  deny  it?"  Sir  Hugh  re- 
peated. His  assumption  of  good-humour 
was  gone.  He,  too,  was  scowling  now. 
"What  have  you  to  say  then?" 

"By  heaven,— I  say  that  you  shall  not 
come  near  my  mother." 

"And  what  if  it  was  not  because  of  my 

dissolute  life  she  left  me  ?  What  if  you  Ve 

built  up  a  cock-and-bull  romance  that  has 

no  relation  to  reality  in  your  empty  young 

217 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

head?  What  then?  Ask  your  mother  if 
she  left  me  because  of  my  dissolute  life," 
said  Sir  Hugh. 

The  book  in  Augustine's  wrenching 
hands  had  come  apart  with  a  crack  and 
crash.  He  looked  down  at  it  stupidly. 

"You  really  should  learn  to  control 
yourself— in  every  direction,  my  dear 
boy,"  Sir  Hugh  remarked.  "Now,  unless 
you  would  like  to  wreak  your  temper  on 
the  furniture,  I  think  you  had  better  sit 
down  and  be  still.  I  should  advise  you 
to  think  over  the  fact  that  saints  have  been 
known  before  now  to  forgive  sinners. 
And  sinners  may  not  be  so  bad  as  your 
innocence  imagines.  Goodbye.  I  am  go- 
ing up  to  see  your  mother.  I  am  going  to 
spend  the  night  here." 

Augustine  stood  holding  the  shattered 
book.  He  gazed  as  stupidly  at  Sir  Hugh 
as  he  had  gazed  at  it.  He  gazed  while 
Sir  Hugh,  who  kept  a  rather  wary  eye 
fixed  on  him,  left  the  fire  and  proceeded 
with  a  leisurely  pace  to  cross  the  room: 
the  door  was  reached  and  the  handle 
218 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

turned,  before  the  stupor  broke.  Sir 
Hugh,  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  his  antago- 
nist, saw  the  blanched  fury,  the  start,  as  if 
the  dazed  body  were  awakening  to  some 
insufferable  torture,  saw  the  gathering  to- 
gether, the  leap:— "You  fool— you  young 
fool!"  he  ground  between  his  teeth  as, 
with  a  clash  of  the  half-opened  door,  Au- 
gustine pinned  him  upon  it.  "Let  me  go. 
Do  you  hear.  Let  me  go."  His  voice  was 
the  voice  of  the  lion-tamer,  hushed  before 
danger  to  a  quelling  depth  of  quiet. 

And  like  the  young  lion,  drawing  long 
breaths  through  dilated-  nostrils,  Augus- 
tine growled  back: — "I  will  not — I  will 
not.— You  shall  not  go  to  her.  I  would 
rather  kill  you." 

"Kill  me?"  Sir  Hugh  smiled.  "It  would 
be  a  fight  first,  you  know." 

"Then  let  it  be  a  fight.  You  shall  not 
go  to  her." 

"And  what  if  she  wants  me  to  go  to  her. 

—Will  you  kill  her   first,   too— "—The 

words  broke.     Augustine's  hand  was  on 

his  throat.     Sir  Hugh  seized  him.    They 

219 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

writhed  together  against  the  door.  "You 
mad-man! — You  damned  mad-man! — 
Your  mother  is  in  love  with  me.— I  '11  put 
you  out  of  her  life — " — Sir  Hugh  grated 
forth  from  the  strangling  clutch. 

Suddenly,  as  they  writhed,  panting, 
glaring  their  hatred  at  each  other,  the  door 
they  leaned  on  pushed  against  them. 
Someone  outside  was  turning  the  handle, 
was  forcing  it  open.  And,  as  if  through 
the  shocks  and  flashes  of  a  blinding, 
deafening  tempest,  Augustine  heard  his 
mother's  voice,  very  still,  saying:  "Let  me 
come  in." 


220 


XI 


|HEY  fell  apart  and  moved  back 
into  the  room.  Amabel  entered. 
She  wore  a  long  white  dress- 
ing-gown that,  to  her  son's  eyes,  made 
her  more  than  ever  look  her  sainted 
self;  she  had  dressed  hastily,  and,  on 
hearing  the  crash  below,  she  had  wrapped 
a  white  scarf  about  her  head  and  shoul- 
ders, covering  her  unbound  hair.  So 
framed  and  narrowed  her  face  was  that 
of  a  shrouded  corpse:  the  same  strange 
patience  stamped  it;  her  eyes,  only, 
seemed  to  live,  and  they,  too,  were  patient 
and  ready  for  any  doom. 

Quietly  she  had  closed  the  door,  and 
standing  near  it  now  she  looked  at  them; 
her  eyes  fell  for  a  moment  upon  Sir  Hugh ; 
then  they  rested  on  Augustine  and  did  not 
leave  him. 

221 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

Sir  Hugh  spoke  first.  He  laughed  a 
little,  adjusting  his  collar  and  tie. 

"My  dear, — you  Ve  saved  my  life.  Au- 
gustine was  going  to  batter  my  brains  out 
on  the  door,  I  fancy." 

She  did  not  look  at  him,  but  at  Augus- 
tine. 

"He  Js  really  dangerous,  your  son,  you 
know.  Please  don't  leave  me  alone  with 
him  again,"  Sir  Hugh  smiled  and  pleaded; 
it  was  with  almost  his  own  lightness,  but 
his  face  still  twitched  with  anger. 

"What  have  you  said  to  him?"  Amabel 
asked. 

Augustine's  eyes  were  drawing  her 
down  into  their  torment. — Unfortunate 
one. — That  presage  of  her  maternity 
echoed  in  her  now.  His  stern  young  face 
seemed  to  have  been  framed,  destined 
from  the  first  for  this  foreseen  misery. 

Sir  Hugh  had  pulled  himself  together. 
He  looked  at  the  mother  and  son.  And 
he  understood  her  fear. 

He  went  to  her,  leaned  over  her,  a  hand 
above  her  shoulder  on  the  door.  He  re- 
222 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

assured  and  protected  her;  and,  truly,  in 
all  their  story,  it  had  never  been  with  such 
sincerity  and  grace. 

"Dearest,  it  's  nothing.  I  've  merely 
had  to  defend  my  rights.  Will  you  assure 
this  young  firebrand  that  my  misdemean- 
ours did  n't  force  you  to  leave  me.  That 
there  were  misdemeanors  I  don't  deny; 
and  of  course  you  are  too  good  for  the 
likes  of  me ;  but  your  coming  away  was  n't 
my  fault,  was  it. — That 's  what  I  Ve  said. 
—And  that  saints  forgive  sinners,  some- 
times.— That 's  all  I  want  you  to  tell  him." 

Amabel  still  gazed  into  her  son's  eyes. 
It  seemed  to  her,  now  that  she  must  shut 
herself  out  from  it  for  ever,  that  for  the 
first  time  in  all  her  life  she  saw  his  love. 

It  broke  over  her;  it  threatened  and 
commanded  her;  it  implored  and  suppli- 
cated—ah the  supplication  beyond  words 
or  tears! — Selflessness  made  it  stern.  It 
was  for  her  it  threatened;  for  her  it 
prayed. 

All  these  years  the  true  treasure  had 
been  there  beside  her,  while  she  wor- 
223 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

shipped  at  the  spurious  shrine.  Only  her 
sorrow,  her  solicitude  had  gone  out  to  her 
son;  the  answering  love  that  should  have 
cherished  and  encompassed  him  flowed 
towards  its  true  goal  only  when  it  was 
too  late.  He  could  not  love  her  when  he 
knew. 

And  he  was  to  know.  That  had  come 
to  her  clearly  and  unalterably  while  she 
had  leaned,  half  fallen,  half  kneeling, 
against  her  bed,  dying,  it  seemed  to  her, 
to  all  that  she  had  known  of  life  or  hope. 

But  all  was  not  death  within  her.  In 
the  long,  the  deadly  stupor,  her  power  to 
love  still  lived.  It  had  been  thrown  back 
from  its  deep  channel  and,  wave  upon 
wave,  it  seemed  heaped  upon  itself  in  some 
narrow  abyss,  tormented  and  shuddering; 
and  at  last  by  its  own  strength,  rather  than 
by  thought  or  prayer  of  hers,  it  had  forced 
an  outlet. 

It  was  then  as  if  she  found  herself  once 
more  within  the  church.  Darkness,  utter 
darkness  was  about  her ;  but  she  was  pros- 
trated before  the  unseen  altar.  She  knew 
224 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

herself  once  more,  and  with  herself  she 
knew  her  power  to  love. 

Her  life  and  all  its  illusions  passed  be- 
fore her;  by  the  truth  that  irradiated  the 
illusions,  she  judged  them  and  herself  and 
saw  what  must  be  the  atonement.  All  that 
she  had  believed  to  be  the  treasure  of  her 
life  had  been  taken  from  her;  but  there 
was  one  thing  left  to  her  that  she  could 
give: — her  truth  to  her  son.  When  that 
price  was  paid,  he  would  be  hers  to  love; 
he  was  no  longer  hers  to  live  for.  He 
should  found  his  life  on  no  illusions,  as 
she  had  founded  hers.  She  must  set  him 
free  to  turn  away  from  her ;  but  when  he 
turned  away  it  would  not  be  to  leave  her 
in  the  loneliness  and  the  terror  of  heart 
that  she  had  known;  it  would  be  to  leave 
her  in  the  church  where  she  could  pray  for 
him. 

She  answered  her  husband  after  her 
long  silence,  looking  at  her  son. 

"It  is  true,  Augustine,"  she  said.   "You 
have  been  mistaken.    I  did  not  leave  him 
for  that." 
15  225 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

Sir  Hugh  drew  a  breath  of  satisfaction. 
He  glanced  round  at  Augustine.  It  was 
not  a  venomous  glance,  but,  with  its  dart 
of  steely  intention,  it  paid  a  debt  of  ven- 
geance. "So, — we  need  n't  say  anything 
more  about  it,"  he  said.  "And— dearest 
— perhaps  now  you  '11  tell  Augustine  that 
he  may  go  and  leave  us  together." 

Amabel  left  her  husband's  side  and  went 
to  her  chair  near  the  table.  A  strange 
calmness  breathed  from  her.  She  sat 
with  folded  hands  and  downcast  eyes. 

"Augustine,  come  here,"  she  said. 

The  young  man  came  and  stood  before 
her. 

"Give  me  your  hand." 

He  gave  it  to  her.  She  did  not  look  at 
him  but  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground 
while  she  clasped  it. 

"Augustine,"  she  said,  "I  want  you  to 
leave  me  with  my  husband.  I  must  talk 
with  him.  He  is  going  away  soon.  To- 
morrow— tomorrow  morning  early,  I  will 
see  you,  here.  I  will  have  a  great  deal  to 
say  to  you,  my  dear  son." 
226 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

But  Augustine,  clutching  her  hand  and 
trembling,  looked  down  at  her  so  that  she 
raised  her  eyes  to  his. 

"I  can't  go,  till  you  say  something,  now, 
Mother;" — his  voice  shook  as  it  had 
shaken  on  that  day  of  their  parting,  his 
face  was  livid  and  convulsed,  as  then; — 
"I  will  go  away  tonight — I  don't  know 
that  I  can  ever  return — unless  you  tell  me 
that  you  are  not  going  to  take  him  back." 
He  gazed  down  into  his  mother's  eyes. 

She  did  not  answer  him;  she  did  not 
speak.  But,  as  he  looked  into  them,  he, 
too,  for  the  first  time,  saw  in  them  what 
she  had  seen  in  his. 

They  dwelt  on  him ;  they  widened ;  they 
almost  smiled;  they  deeply  promised  him 
all— all — that  he  most  longed  for.  She 
was  his,  her  son's;  she  was  not  her  hus- 
band's. What  he  had  feared  had  never 
threatened  him  or  her.  This  was  a  gift 
she  had  won  the  right  to  give.  The  depth 
of  her  repudiation  yesterday  gave  her  her 
warrant. 

And  to  Amabel,  while  they  looked  into 
227 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

each  other's  eyes,  it  was  as  if,'  in  the  dark- 
ness, some  arching  loveliness  of  dawn 
vaguely  shaped  itself  above  the  altar. 

"Kiss  me,  dear  Augustine,"  she  said. 
She  held  up  her  forehead,  closing  her  eyes, 
for  the  kiss  that  was  her  own. 

Augustine  was  gone.  And  now,  before 
her,  was  the  ugly  breaking.  But  must  it 
be  so  ugly  ?  Opening  her  eyes,  she  looked 
at  her  husband  as  he  stood  before  the  fire, 
his  wondering  eyes  upon  her.  Must  it 
be  ugly?  Why  could  it  not  be  quiet 
and  even  kind? 

Strangely  there  had  gathered  in  her, 
during  the  long  hours,  the  garnered 
strength  of  her  life  of  discipline  and  sub- 
mission. It  had  sustained  her  through 
the  shudder  that  glanced  back  at  yester- 
day— at  the  corruption  that  had  come  so 
near ;  it  had  given  sanity  to  see  with  eyes 
of  compassion  the  forsaken  woman  who 
had  come  with  her  courageous,  revengeful 
story;  it  gave  sanity  now,  as  she  looked 
over  at  her  husband,  to  see  him  also,  with 
those  eyes  of  compassionate  understand- 
228 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

ing;  he  was  not  blackened,  to  her  vision, 
by  the  shadowing  corruption,  but,  in  his 
way,  pitiful,  too;  all  the  worth  of  life  lost 
to  him. 

And  it  seemed  swiftest,  simplest,  and 
kindest,  as  she  looked  over  at  him,  to  say : 
— "You  see— Lady  Elliston  came  this 
afternoon,  and  told  me  everything." 

Sir  Hugh  kept  his  face  remarkably  un- 
moved. He  continued  to  gaze  at  his  wife 
with  an  unabashed,  unstartled  steadiness. 
"I  might  have  guessed  that,"  he  said  after 
a  short  silence.  "Confound  her." 

Amabel  made  no  reply. 

"So  I  suppose,"  Sir  Hugh  went  on,  "you 
feel  you  can't  forgive  me." 

She  hesitated,  not  quite  understanding. 
"You  mean — for  having  married  me — • 
when  you  loved  her  ?" 

"Well,  yes;  but  more  for  not  having, 
long  ago,  in  all  these  years,  found  out  that 
you  were  the  woman  that  any  man  with 
eyes  to  see,  any  man  not  blinded  and  fatu- 
ous, ought  to  have  been  in  love  with  from 
the  beginning." 

229 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

Amabel  flushed.  Her  vision  was  un- 
troubled; but  the  shadow  hovered.  She 
was  ashamed  for  him. 

"No" ;  she  said,  "I  did  not  think  of  that. 
I  don't  know  that  I  have  anything  to  for- 
give you.  It  is  Lady  Elliston,  I  think,  who 
must  try  and  forgive  you,  if  she  can." 

Sir  Hugh  was  again  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment; then  he  laughed.  "You  dear  inno- 
cent!— Well— I  won't  defend  myself  at 
her  expense." 

"Don't,"  said  Amabel,  looking  now 
away  from  him. 

Sir  Hugh  eyed  her  and  seemed  to  weigh 
the  meaning  of  her  voice. 

He  crossed  the  room  suddenly  and 
leaned  over  her: — "Amabel  darling, — 
what  must  I  do  to  atone  ?  I  '11  be  patient. 
Don't  be  cruel  and  punish  me  for  too  long 
a  time." 

"Sit  there — will  you  please."  She 
pointed  to  the  chair  at  the  other  side  of 
the  table. 

He  hesitated,  still  leaning  above  her; 
then  obeyed;  folding  his  arms;  frowning. 
230 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"You  don't  understand,"  said  Amabel. 
"I  loved  you  for  what  you  never  were. 
I  do  not  love  you  now.  And  I  would  never 
have  loved  you  as  you  asked  me  to  do 
yesterday." 

He  gazed  at  her,  trying  to  read  the  diffi- 
cult riddle  of  a  woman's  perversity.  "You 
were  in  love  with  me  yesterday,"  he  said 
at  last. 

She  answered  nothing. 

"I  '11  make  you  love  me  again." 

"No:  never,"  she  answered,  looking 
quietly  at  him.  "What  is  there  in  you  to 
love?" 

Sir  Hugh  flushed.  "I  say!  You  are 
hard  on  me !" 

"I  see  nothing  loveable  in  you,"  said 
Amabel  with  her  inflexible  gentleness.  "I 
loved  you  because  I  thought  you  noble 
and  magnanimous;  but  you  were  neither. 
You  only  did  not  cast  me  off,  as  I  de- 
served, because  you  could  not;  and  you 
were  kind  partly  because  you  are  kind  by 
nature,  but  partly  because  my  money  was 
convenient  to  you.  I  do  not  say  that  you 
231 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

were  ignoble;  you  were  in  a  very  false 
position.  And  I  had  wronged  you ;  I  had 
committed  the  greater  social  crime;  but 
there  was  nothing  noble;  you  must  see 
that;  and  it  was  for  that  I  loved  you." 

Sir  Hugh  now  got  up  and  paced  up  and 
down  near  her. 

"So  you  are  going  to  cast  me  off  because 
I  had  no  opportunity  for  showing  nobility. 
How  do  you  know  I  could  n't  have  behaved 
as  you  believed  I  did  behave,  if  only  I  'd 
had  the  chance  ?  You  know— you  are  hard 
on  me." 

"I  see  no  sign  of  nobility— towards  any- 
one— in  your  life,"  Amabel  answered  as 
dispassionately  as  before. 

Sir  Hugh  walked  up  and  down. 

•"I  did  feel  like  a  brute  about  the  money 
sometimes,"  he  remarked; — "especially 
that  last  time;  I  wanted  you  to  have  the 
house  as  a  sort  of  salve  to  my  conscience ; 
I  've  taken  almost  all  your  money,  you 
know;  it  's  quite  true.  As  to  the  rest— 
what  Augustine  calls  my  dissoluteness— 
I  can't  pretend  to  take  your  view;  a  nun's 
232 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

view."  He  looked  at  her.  "How  beauti- 
ful you  are  with  that  white  round  your 
face,"  he  said.  "You  are  like  a  woman  of 
snow." 

She  looked  back  at  him  as  though,  from 
the  unhesitating  steadiness  of  her  gaze, 
to  lend  him  some  of  her  own  clearness. 

"Don't  you  see  that  it 's  not  real  ?  Don't 
you  see  that  it 's  because  you  suddenly  find 
me  beautiful,  and  because,  as  a  woman  of 
snow,  I  allure  you,  that  you  think  you  love 
me  ?  Do  you  really  deceive  yourself  ?" 

He  stared  at  her;  but  the  ray  only  il- 
lumined the  bewilderment  of  his  disposses- 
sion. "I  don't  pretend  to  be  an  idealist," 
he  said,  stopping  still  before  her;  "I  don't 
pretend  that  it  's  not  because  I  suddenly 
find  you  beautiful ;  that 's  one  reason ;  and 
a  very  essential  one,  I  think ;  but  there  are 
other  reasons,  lots  of  them.  Amabel — 
you  must  see  that  my  love  for  you  is  an 
entirely  different  sort  of  thing  from  what 
my  love  for  her  ever  was." 

She  said  nothing.  She  could  not  argue 
with  him,  nor  ask,  as  if  for  a  cheap  tri- 

233 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

umph,  if  it  were  different  from  his  love 
for  the  later  mistress.  She  saw,  indeed, 
that  it  was  different  now,  whatever  it  had 
been  yesterday.  Clearly  she  saw,  glancing 
at  herself  as  at  an  object  in  the  drama, 
that  she  offered  quite  other  interests  and 
charms,  that  her  attractions,  indeed,  might 
be  of  a  quality  to  elicit  quite  new  senti- 
ments from  Sir  Hugh,  sentiments  less 
shadowing  than  those  of  yesterday  had 
been.  And  so  she  accepted  his  interpreta- 
tion in  silence,  unmoved  by  it  though  do- 
ing it  full  justice,  and  for  a  little  while 
Sir  Hugh  said  nothing  either.  He  still 
stood  before  her  and  she  no  longer  looked 
at  him,  but  down  at  her  folded  hands  that 
did  not  tremble  at  all  tonight,  and  she 
wondered  if  now,  perhaps,  he  would  un- 
derstand her  silence  and  leave  her.  But 
when,  in  an  altered  voice,  he  said :  "Ama- 
bel;" she  looked  at  him. 

She  seemed  to  see  everything  tonight 
as  a  disembodied  spirit  might  see  it,  aware 
of  what  the  impeding  flesh  could  only 
dimly  manifest ;  and  she  saw  now  that  her 

234 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

husband's  face  had  never  been  so  near 
beauty. 

It  did  not  attain  it ;  it  was,  rather,  as  if 
the  shadow,  lifting  entirely  for  a  flicker- 
ing moment,  revealed  something  uncon- 
scious, something  almost  innocent,  almost 
pitiful:  it  was  as  if,  liberated,  he  saw 
beauty  for  a  moment  and  put  out  his  hands 
to  it,  like  a  child  putting  out  its  hands  to 
touch  the  moon,  believing  that  it  was  as 
near  to  him,  and  as  easily  to  be  attained, 
as  pleasure  always  had  been. 

"Try  to  forgive  me,"  he  said,  and  his 
voice  had  the  broken  note  of  a  sad  child's 
voice,  the  note  of  ultimate  appeal  from 
man  to  woman.  "I  'm  a  poor  creature; 
I  know  that.  It  's  always  made  me 
ashamed — to  see  how  you  idealise  me. — 
The  other  day,  you  know, — when  you 
kissed  my  hand— I  was  horribly  ashamed. 
— But,  upon  my  honour  Amabel,  I  'm  not 
a  bad  fellow  at  bottom, — not  the  devil  in- 
carnate your  son  seems  to  think  me. 
Something  could  be  made  of  me,  you 
know; — and,  if  you  '11  forgive  me,  and  let 

235 


AMABEL  .CHANNICE 

me  try  to  win  your  love  again; — ah  Ama- 
bel— " — he  pleaded,  almost  with  tears,  be- 
fore her  unchangingly  gentle  face.  And, 
the  longing  to  touch  her,  hold  her,  re- 
ceive comfort  and  love,  mingling  with 
the  new  reverential  fear,  he  knelt  beside 
her,  putting  his  head  on  her  knees  and 
murmuring:  "I  do  so  desperately  love 
you." 

Amabel  sat  looking  down  upon  him. 
Her  face  was  unchanged,  but  in  her  heart 
was  a  trembling  of  astonished  sadness. 

It  was  too  late.  It  had  been  too  late— 
from  the  very  first; — yet,  if  they  could 
have  met  before  each  was  spoiled  for  each ; 
— before  life  had  set  them  unalterably 
apart — ?  The  great  love  of  her  life  was 
perhaps  not  all  illusion. 

And  she  seemed  to  sit  for  a  moment  in 
the  dark  church,  dreaming  of  the  distant 
Spring-time,  of  brooks  and  primroses  and 
prophetic  birds,  and  of  love,  young,  un- 
tried and  beautiful.  But  she  did  not  lay 
her  hand  on  Sir  Hugh's  head  nor  move  at 
all  towards  him.  She  sat  quite  still,  look- 
236 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

ing  down  at  him,  like  a  Madonna  above  a 
passionate  supplicant,  pitiful  but  serene. 

And  as  he  knelt,  with  his  face  hidden, 
and  did  not  hear  her  voice  nor  feel  her 
touch,  with  an  unaccustomed  awe  the  real- 
isation of  her  remoteness  from  him  stole 
upon  Sir  Hugh. 

Passion  faded  from  his  heart,  even  self- 
pity  and  longing  faded.  He  entered  her 
visionary  retrospect  and  knew,  like  her, 
that  it  was  too  late;  that  everything  was 
too  late;  that  everything  was  really  over. 
And,  as  he  realised  it,  a  chill  went  over 
him.  He  felt  like  a  strayed  reveller  wak- 
ing suddenly  from  long  slumber  and  find- 
ing himself  alone  in  darkness. 

He  lifted  his  face  and  looked  at  her, 
needing  the  reassurance  of  her  human 
eyes;  and  they  met  his  with  their  remote 
gentleness.  For  a  long  moment  they  gazed 
at  each  other. 

Then  Sir  Hugh,  stumbling  a  little,  got 
upon  his  feet  and  stood,  half  turned  from 
her,  looking  away  into  the  room. 

When  he  spoke  it  was  in  quite  a  differ- 

237 


ent  voice,  it  was  almost  the  old,  usual 
voice,  the  familiar  voice  of  their  friendly 
encounters. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
yourself,  now,  Amabel?" 

"I  am  going  to  tell  Augustine,"  she 
said. 

"Tell  him !"  Sir  Hugh  looked  round  at 
her.  "Why?" 

"I  must." 

He  seemed,  after  a  long  silence,  to  ac- 
cept her  sense  of  necessity  as  sufficient 
reason.  "Will  it  cut  him  up  very  much, 
do  you  think?"  he  asked. 

"It  will  change  everything  very  much, 
I  think,"  said  Amabel. 

"Do  you  mean — that  he  will  blame 
you?-" 

"I  don't  think  that  he  can  love  me  any 
longer." 

There  was  no  hint  of  self-pity  in  her 
calm  tones  and  Sir  Hugh  could  only  form- 
ulate his  resentment  and  his  protest— and 
they  were  bitter,— by  a  muttered —  "Oh 
— I  say! — I  say! — " 

238 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

He  went  on  presently;  "And  will  you 
go  on  living  here,  perhaps  alone?" 

"Alone,  I  think;  yes,  I  shall  live  here; 
I  do  not  find  it  dismal,  you  know." 

Sir  Hugh  felt  himself  again  looking 
reluctantly  into  darkness.  "But — how 
will  you  manage  it,  Amabel?"  he  asked. 

And  her  voice  seemed  to  come,  in  all 
serenity,  from  the  darkness ;  "I  shall  man- 
age it." 

Yes,  the  awe  hovered  near  him  as  he 
realised  that  what,  to  him,  meant  dark- 
ness, to  her  meant  life.  She  would  man- 
age it.  She  had  managed  to  live  through 
everything. 

A  painful  analogy  came  to  increase  his 
sadness; — it  was  like  having  before  one 
a  martyr  who  had  been  bound  to  rack 
after  rack  and  still  maintained  that 
strange  air  of  keeping  something  it  was 
worth  while  being  racked  for.  Glancing 
at  her  it  seemed  to  him,  still  more  pain- 
fully, that  in  spite  of  her  beauty  she  was 
very  like  a  martyr;  that  queer  touch 
of  wildness  in  her  eyes ;  they  were  serene, 

239 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

they  were  even  sweet,  yet  they  seemed  to 
have  looked  on  horrid  torments ;  and  those 
white  wrappings  might  have  concealed 
dreadful  scars. 

He  took  out  his  watch,  nervously  and 
automatically,  and  looked  at  it.  He  would 
have  to  walk  to  the  station ;  he  could  catch 
a  train. 

"And  may  I  come,  sometimes,  and  see 
you  ?"  he  asked.  "I  '11  not  bother  you,  you 
know.  I  understand,  at  last.  I  see  what 
a  blunder — an  ugly  blunder — this  has  been 
on  my  part.  But  perhaps  you  '11  let  me  be 
your  friend — more  really  your  friend 
than  I  have  ever  been." 

And  now,  as  he  glanced  at  her  again, 
he  saw  that  the  gentleness  was  remote  no 
longer.  It  had  come  near  like  a  light  that, 
in  approaching,  diffused  itself  and  made  a 
sudden  comfort  and  sweetness.  She  was 
too  weary  to  smile,  but  her  eyes,  dwelling 
gently  on  him,  promised  him  something, 
as,  when  they  had  dwelt  with  their  passion 
of  exiled  love  on  her  son,  they  had  prom- 
ised something  to  Augustine.  She  held 
240 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

out  her  hand.     "We  are   friends,"  she 
said. 

Sir  Hugh  flushed  darkly.  He  stood 
holding  her  hand,  looking  at  it  and  not 
at  her.  He  could  not  tell  what  were  the 
confused  emotions  that  struggled  within 
him;  shame  and  changed  love;  awe,  and 
broken  memories  of  prayers  that  called 
down  blessings.  It  was  "God  bless  you," 
that  he  felt,  yet  he  did  not  feel  that  it  was 
for  him  to  say  these  words  to  her.  And 
no  words  came ;  but  tears  were  in  his  eyes 
as,  in  farewell,  he  bent  over  her  hand  and 
kissed  it. 


16 


XII 

|HEN  Amabel  waked  next  morn- 
ing a  bright  dawn  filled  her 
room.  She  remembered,  find- 
ing it  so  light,  that  before  lying  down  to 
sleep  she  had  drawn  all  her  curtains  so 
that,  through  the  open  windows,  she  might 
see,  until  she  fell  asleep,  a  wonderful  sky 
of  stars.  She  had  not  looked  at  them  for 
long.  She  had  gone  to  sleep  quickly  and 
quietly,  lying  on  her  side,  her  face  turned 
to  the  sky,  her  arms  cast  out  before  her, 
just  as  she  had  first  lain  down;  and  so 
she  found  herself  lying  when  she  waked. 
It  was  very  early.  The  sun  gilded  the 
dark  summits  of  the  sycamores  that  she 
could  see  from  her  window.  The  sky  was 
very  high  and  clear,  and  long,  thin  strips 
of  cloud  curved  in  lessening  bars  across 
it  The  confused  chirpings  of  the  waking 
242 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

birds  filled  the  air.  And  before  any 
thought  had  come  to  her  she  smiled  as  she 
lay  there,  looking  at  and  listening  to  the 
wakening  life. 

Then  the  remembrance  of  the  dark 
ordeal  that  lay  before  her  came.  It  was 
like  waking  to  the  morning  that  was  to 
see  one  on  the  scaffold:  but,  with  some- 
thing of  the  light  detachment  that  a  con- 
demned prisoner  might  feel — nothing  be- 
ing left  to  hope  for  and  the  only  strength 
demanded  being  the  passive  strength  to 
endure— she  found  that  she  was  thinking 
more  of  the  sky  and  of  the  birds  than  of 
the  ordeal.  Some  hours  lay  between  her 
and  that;  bright,  beautiful  hours. 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  took  her  watch 
which  lay  near.  Only  six.  Augustine 
would  not  expect  to  see  her  until  ten. 
Four  long  hours:  she  must  get  up  and 
spend  them  out  of  doors. 

It  was  too  early  for  hot  water  or  maids ; 
she  enjoyed  the  flowing  shocks  of  the  cold 
and  her  own  rapidity  and  skill  in  dressing 
and  coiling  up  her  hair.  She  put  on  her 

243 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

black  dress  and  took  her  black  scarf  as  a 
covering  for  her  head.  Slipping  out 
noiselessly,  like  a  truant  school-girl,  she 
made  her  way  to  the  pantry,  found  milk 
and  bread,  and  ate  and  drank  standing, 
then,  cautiously  pushing  bolts  and  bars, 
stepped  from  the  door  into  the  dew,  the 
sunlight,  the  keen  young  air. 

She  took  the  path  to  the  left  that  led 
through  the  sycamore  wood,  and  crossing 
the  narrow  brook  by  a  little  plank  and 
hand  rail,  passed  into  the  meadows  where, 
in  Spring,  she  and  Augustine  used  to  pick 
cowslips. 

She  thought  of  Augustine,  but  only  in 
that  distant  past,  as  a  little  child,  and  her 
mind  dwelt  on  sweet,  trivial  memories,  on 
the  toys  he  had  played  with  and  the  pair 
of  baby-shoes,  bright  red  shoes,  square- 
toed,  with  rosettes  on  them,  that  she  had 
loved  to  see  him  wear  with  his  little  white 
frocks.  And  in  remembering  the  shoes 
she  smiled  again,  as  she  had  smiled  in 
hearing  the  noisy  chirpings  of  the  waking 
birds. 

244 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

The  little  path  ran  on  through  meadow 
after  meadow,  stiles  at  the  hedges,  planks 
over  the  brooks  and  ditches  that  inter- 
sected this  flat,  pastoral  country.  She 
paused  for  a  long  time  to  watch  the  birds 
hopping  and  fluttering  in  a  line  of  sapling 
willows  that  bordered  one  of  these  brooks 
and  at  another  stood  and  watched  a  water- 
rat,  unconscious  of  her  nearness,  making 
his  morning  toilette  on  the  bank;  he 
rubbed  his  ears  and  muzzle  hastily,  with 
the  most  amusing  gesture.  Once  she  left 
the  path  to  go  close  to  some  cows  that 
were  grazing  peacefully;  their  beautiful 
eyes,  reflecting  the  green  pastures,  looked 
up  at  her  with  serenity,  and  she  delighted 
in  the  fragrance  that  exhaled  from  their 
broad,  wet  nostrils. 

"Darlings,"  she  found  herself  saying. 

She  went  very  far.  She  crossed  the 
road  that,  seen  from  Charlock  House, 
was,  with  its  bordering  elm-trees,  only  a 
line  of  blotted  blue.  And  all  the  time  the 
light  grew  more  splendid  and  the  sun  rose 
higher  in  the  vast  dome  of  the  sky. 

245 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

She  returned  more  slowly  than  she  had 
gone.  It  was  like  a  dream  this  walk,  as 
though  her  spirit,  awake,  alive  to  sight 
and  sound,  smiling  and  childish,  were  out 
under  the  sky,  while  in  the  dark,  sad 
house  the  heavily  throbbing  heart  waited 
for  its  return. 

This  waiting  heart  seemed  to  come  out 
to  meet  her  as  once  more  she  saw  the  syca- 
mores dark  on  the  sky  and  saw  beyond 
them  the  low  stone  house.  The  pearly,  the 
crystalline  interlude,  drew  to  a  close.  She 
knew  that  in  passing  from  it  she  passed 
into  deep,  accepted  tragedy. 

The  sycamores  had  grown  so  tall  since 
she  first  came  to  live  at  Charlock  House 
that  the  foliage  made  a  high  roof  and  only 
sparkling  chinks  of  sky  showed  through. 
The  path  before  her  was  like  the  narrow 
aisle  of  a  cathedral.  It  was  very  dark  and 
silent. 

She  stood  still,  remembering  the  day 
when,  after  her  husband's  first  visit  to 
her,  she  had  come  here  in  the  late  after- 
noon and  had  known  the  mingled  revela- 
246 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

tion  of  divine  and  human  holiness.  She 
stood  still,  thinking  of  it,  and  wondered 
intently,  looking  down. 

It  was  gone,  that  radiant  human  image, 
gone  for  ever.  The  son,  to  whom  her  heart 
now  clung,  was  stern.  She  was  alone. 
Every  prop,  every  symbol  of  the  divine 
love  had  been  taken  from  her.  But,  so  be- 
reft, it  was  not,  after  the  long  pause  of 
wonder,  in  weakness  and  abandonment 
that  she  stood  still  in  the  darkness  and 
closed  her  eyes. 

It  was  suffering,  but  it  was  not  fear; 
it  was  longing,  but  it  was  not  loneliness. 
And  as,  in  her  wrecked  girl-hood,  she  had 
held  out  her  hands,  blessed  and  receiving, 
she  held  them  out  now,  blessed,  though 
sacrificing  all  she  had.  But  her  uplifted 
face,  white  and  rapt,  was  now  without  a 
smile. 

Suddenly  she  knew  that  someone  was 
near  her. 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  saw  Augustine 
standing  at  some  little  distance  looking 
at  her.  It  seemed  natural  to  see  him  there, 
247 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

waiting  to  lead  her  into  the  ordeal.  She 
went  towards  him  at  once. 

"Is  it  time?"  she  said.    "Am  I  late?" 

Augustine  was  looking  intently  at  her. 
"It  is  n't  half-past  nine  yet,"  he  said. 
"I  've  had  my  breakfast.  I  did  n't  know 
you  had  gone  out  till  just  now  when  I 
went  to  your  room  and  found  it  empty." 

She  saw  then  in  his  eyes  that  he  had 
been  frightened.  He  took  her  hand  and 
she  yielded  it  to  him  and  they  went  up 
towards  the  house. 

"I  have  had  such  a  long  walk,"  she  said. 
"Is  n't  it  a  beautiful  morning." 

"Yes;  I  suppose  so,"  said  Augustine. 
As  they  walked  he  did  not  take  his  eyes 
off  his  mother's  face. 

"Are  n't  you  tired?"  he  asked. 

"Not  at  all.    I  slept  well." 

"Your  shoes  are  quite  wet,"  said  Au- 
gustine, looking  down  at  them. 

"Yes;  the  meadows  were  thick  with 
dew." 

"You  did  n't  keep  to  the  path?" 

"Yes; — no,  I  remember."— she  looked 
248 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

down  at  her  shoes,  trying,  obediently,  to 
satisfy  him,  "I  turned  aside  to  look  at  the 
cows." 

"Will  you  please  change  your  shoes  at 
once  ?" 

"I  '11  go  up  now  and  change  them.  And 
will  you  wait  for  me  in  the  drawing-room, 
Augustine." 

"Yes."  She  saw  that  he  was  still  fright- 
ened, and  remembering  how  strange  she 
must  have  looked  to  him,  standing  still, 
with  upturned  face  and  outstretched 
hands,  in  the  sycamore  wood,  she  smiled 
at  him:  — "I  am  well,  dear,  don't  be 
troubled,"  she  said. 

In  her  room,  before  she  went  down- 
stairs, she  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass. 
The  pale,  calm  face  was  strange  to  her, 
or  was  it  the  story,  now  on  her  lips,  that 
was  the  strange  thing,  looking  at  that 
face.  She  saw  them  both  with  Augustine's 
eyes ;  how  could  he  believe  it  of  that  face. 
She  did  not  see  the  mirrored  holiness,  but 
the  innocent  eyes  looked  back  at  her  mar- 
velling at  what  she  was  to  tell  of  them. 
249 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

In  the  drawing-room  Augustine  was 
walking  up  and  down.  The  fire  was  burn- 
ing cheerfully  and  all  the  windows  were 
wide  open.  The  room  looked  its  lightest. 
Augustine's  intent  eyes  were  on  her  as  she 
entered.  "You  won't  find  the  air  too 
much  ?"  he  questioned ;  his  voice  trembled. 

She  murmured  that  she  liked  it.  But 
the  agitation  that  she  saw  controlled  in 
him  affected  her  so  that  she,  too,  began  to 
tremble. 

She  went  to  her  chair  at  one  side  of  the 
large  round  table.  "Will  you  sit  there, 
Augustine,"  she  said. 

He  sat  down,  opposite  to  her,  where  Sir 
Hugh  had  sat  the  night  before.  Amabel 
put  her  elbows  on  the  table  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands.  She  could  not 
look  at  her  child;  she  could  not  see  his 
pain. 

"Augustine,"  she  said,  "I  am  going  to 
tell  you  a  long  story;  it  is  about  myself, 
and  about  you.  And  you  will  be  brave, 
for  my  sake,  and  try  to  help  me  to  tell  it 
as  quickly  as  I  can." 

250 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

His  silence  promised  what  she  asked. 

"Before  the  story,"  she  said,  "I  will  tell 
you  the  central  thing,  the  thing  you  must 
be  brave  to  hear. — You  are  an  illegitimate 
child,  Augustine."  At  that  she  stopped. 
She  listened  and  heard  nothing.  Then 
came  long  breaths. 

She  opened  her  eyes  to  see  that  his  head 
had  fallen  forward  and  was  buried  in  his 
arms.  "I  can't  bear  it. — I  can't  bear  it — " 
came  in  gasps. 

She  could  say  nothing.  She  had  no 
word  of  alleviation  for  his  agony.  Only 
she  felt  it  turning  like  a  sword  in  her 
heart. 

"Say  something  to  me"— Augustine 
gasped  on. — "You  did  that  for  him,  too. — 
I  am  his  child.— You  are  not  my  mother. 
— "  He  could  not  sob. 

Amabel  gazed  at  him.  With  the  un- 
imaginable revelation  of  his  love  came  the 
unimaginable  turning  of  the  sword ;  it  was 
this  that  she  must  destroy.  She  com- 
manded herself  to  inflict,  swiftly,  the  fur- 
ther blow. 

251 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"Augustine,"  she  said. 

He  lifted  a  blind  face,  hearing  her  voice. 
He  opened  his  eyes.  They  looked  at  each 
other. 

'I  am  your  mother,"  said  Amabel. 

He  gazed  at  her.  He  gazed  and  gazed; 
and  she  offered  herself  to  the  crucifixion 
of  his  transfixing  eyes. 

The  silence  grew  long.  It  had  done  its 
work.  Once  more  she  put  her  hands  be- 
fore her  face.  "Listen,"  she  said.  "I  will 
tell  you." 

He  did  not  stir  nor  move  his  eyes  from 
her  hidden  face  while  she  spoke.  Swiftly, 
clearly,  monotonously,  she  told  him  all. 
She  paused  at  nothing;  she  slurred 
nothing.  She  read  him  the  story  of  the 
stupid  sinner  from  the  long  closed  book 
of  the  past.  There  was  no  hesitation  for 
a  word;  no  uncertainty  for  an  interpreta- 
tion. Everything  was  written  clearly  and 
she  had  only  to  read  it  out.  And  while  she 
spoke,  of  her  girlhood,  her  marriage,  of 
the  man  with  the  unknown  name — his 
father — of  her  flight  with  him,  her  flight 
252 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

from  him,  here,  to  this  house,  Augustine 
sat  motionless.  His  eyes  considered  her, 
fixed  in  their  contemplation. 

She  told  him  of  his  own  coming,  of  her 
brother's  anger  and  dismay,  of  Sir  Hugh's 
magnanimity,  and  of  how  he  had  been 
born  to  her,  her  child,  the  unfortun- 
ate one,  whom  she  had  felt  unworthy  to 
love  as  a  child  should  be  loved.  She  told 
him  how  her  sin  had  shut  him  away 
and  made  strangeness  grow  between 
them. 

And  when  all  this  was  told  Amabel  put 
down  her  hands.  His  stillness  had  grown 
uncanny:  he  might  not  have  been  there; 
she  might  have  been  talking  in  an  empty 
room.  But  he  was  there,  sitting  opposite 
her,  as  she  had  last  seen  him,  half  turned 
in  his  seat,  fallen  together  a  little  as 
though  his  breathing  were  very  slight  and 
shallow;  and  his  dilated  eyes,  strange, 
deep,  fierce,  were  fixed  on  her.  She  shut 
the  sight  out  with  her  hands. 

She  stumbled  a  little  now  in  speaking 
on,  and  spoke  more  slowly.  She  knew 

253 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

herself  condemned  and  the  rest  seemed 
unnecessary.  It  only  remained  to  tell  him 
how  her  mistaken  love  had  also  shut  him 
out;  to  tell,  slightly,  not  touching  Lady 
Elliston's  name,  of  how  the  mistake  had 
come  to  pass ;  to  say,  finally,  on  long,  fail- 
ing breaths,  that  her  sin  had  always  been 
between  them  but  that,  until  the  other  day, 
when  he  had  told  her  of  his  ideals,  she 
had  not  seen  how  impassable  was  the  di- 
vision. "And  now,"  she  said,  and  the  con- 
vulsive trembling  shook  her  as  she  spoke, 
"now  you  must  say  what  you  will  do.  I 
am  a  different  woman  from  the  mother 
you  have  loved  and  reverenced.  You  will 
not  care  to  be  with  the  stranger  you  must 
feel  me  to  be.  You  are  free,  and  you  must 
leave  me.  Only,"  she  said,  but  her  voice 
now  shook  so  that  she  could  hardly  say  the 
words — "only — I  will  always  be  here- 
loving  you,  Augustine;  loving  you  and 
perhaps, — forgive  me  if  I  have  no  right  to 
that,  even — hoping; — hoping  that  some 
day,  in  some  degree,  you  may  care  for  me 
again." 

254 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

She  stopped.  She  could  say  no  more. 
And  she  could  only  hear  her  own  shudder- 
ing breaths. 

Then  Augustine  moved.  He  pushed 
back  his  chair  and  rose.  She  waited  to 
hear  him  leave  the  room,  and  leave  her, 
to  her  doom,  in  silence. 

But  he  was  standing  still. 

Then  he  came  near  to  her.  And  now 
she  waited  for  the  words  that  would  be 
worse  than  silence. 

But  at  first  there  were  no  words.  He 
had  fallen  on  his  knees  before  her ;  he  had 
put  his  arms  around  her;  he  was  press- 
ing his  head  against  her  breast  while, 
trembling  as  she  trembled,  he  said:  — 
"Mother— Mother— Mother." 

All  barriers  had  fallen  at  the  cry.  It 
was  the  cry  of  the  exile,  the  banished 
thing,  returning  to  its  home.  He  pressed 
against  the  heart  to  which  she  had  never 
herself  dared  to  draw  him. 

But,  incredulous,  she  parted  her  hands 
and  looked  down  at  him ;  and  still  she  did 
not  dare  enfold  him. 

255 


AMABEL  CHANNICE 

"Augustine— do  you  understand? — Do 
you  still  love  me? — " 

"Oh  Mother,"  he  gasped,— "what  ha^e 
I  been  to  you  that  you  can  ask  me !" 

"You  can  forgive  me?"  Amabel  said, 
weeping,  and  hiding  her  face  against  his 
hair. 

They  were  locked  in  each  other's  arms. 

And,  his  head  upon  her  breast,  as  if  it 
were  her  own  heart  that  spoke  to  her,  he 
said:  —  "I  will  atone  to  you. — I  will  make 
up  to  you — for  everything. — You  shall  be 
glad  that  I  was  born." 


256 


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